


It’s Only Natural (But Why Did It Have to be Me?)

by shipoutatsea



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Mamma Mia! (Movies)
Genre: (or really lovers to enemies to friends to lovers), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Historically Inaccurate, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pining Enjolras, Pining Grantaire, Slow Burn, This All Could Have Been Resolved With A Simple Conversation ™, although more like a small dip in mamma mia bc rlly the plot bears 0 resemblance lol, courfeyrac is julie walters, enjolras is meryl streep, if we're being precise, period-typical homophobia does not rlly feature, the mamma mia 2 crossover no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-05 05:28:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17318858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipoutatsea/pseuds/shipoutatsea
Summary: Other people escape to faraway Greek islands because of boys. Enjolras makes his escape because of the 1979 election result.(“It isalsobecause of a boy though,” says Courfeyrac. “I mean, it’s actuallymostlybecause of a boy.”Combeferre elbows him pointedly. “You’re supposed to bebolstering,” he hisses, and then pastes on an obliging smile for Enjolras. “How could the British people do this to us?” he demands melodramatically, and takes advantage of Enjolras’s distracted rant about howit wasn’t the fault of the people; no one’s offering a good option; they’ve been completely let down by the major parties!to pry the empty ice-cream tub out of his cold, heartbroken hands.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> updates should be vaguely regular. pls don't read this in the hopes of learning accurate details about thatcherite politics; you will be sorely disappointed. did i set it in 1979 purely so they could listen to london calling? yes.

     Other people escape to faraway Greek islands because of boys. Enjolras makes his escape because of the 1979 election result.

(“It is _also_ because of a boy though,” says Courfeyrac. “I mean, it’s actually _mostly_ because of a boy.”

Combeferre elbows him pointedly. “You’re supposed to be _bolstering_ ,” he hisses, and then pastes on an obliging smile for Enjolras. “How could the British people do this to us?” he demands melodramatically, and takes advantage of Enjolras’s distracted rant about how _it wasn’t the fault of the people; no one’s offering a good option; they’ve been completely let down by the major parties!_ to pry the empty ice-cream tub out of his cold, heartbroken hands.)

 

Xxxx

 

I

 

“ _When you were lonely, you needed a man,_

_Someone to lean on, well I understand-_

_It’s only natural, but why did it have to be me?”_

ABBA

 

Christophe is- was- the perfect boyfriend, and possibly the Love of Enjolras’s Life. He’d graduated last year and stayed working in Oxford for a political ecology research group, he was a passionate green campaigner, he got up at 6am every day and went swimming (in the river! even in winter!). He never failed to push Enjolras to be a better him, a better activist (the terms were arguably, as it turned out, quite synonymous), _and_ he grew his own organic vegetables. And if that wasn’t enough, he even knitted! He knitted _socks_ for _old ladies!_ Until he broke up with Enjolras, Courfeyrac maintained that he was too perfect to be a human and was 89% likely to be a cyborg. Enjolras honestly _wouldn’t even have cared._

And now Enjolras’s life has gone to shit. Lying in Combeferre’s double bed between Courf and Ferre, he makes the terrible mistake of glancing at the clock, and bursts out crying when he realises it’s past 9am. If Christophe was still here, he’d’ve had _three whole fucking hours_ of productivity by this time of the morning, and now look at him! Still in bed in Courf’s rainbow-striped jumper, sobbing into his sleeve while his best friends exchange concerned glances over the top of his head.

“Don’t think I can’t see your judgey faces,” he sniffs at them tearfully. “I know I’m an absolute mess.”

“You’re not a mess,” says Combeferre reassuringly, at the same time as Courf tells him sympathetically,

“You are a bit.” He gives Enjolras’s head a couple of conciliatory pats. “There, there.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras tells him, attempting _sardonic_ and ending up with _mournful._ “Glad you agree with Christophe.” His voice breaks on the name. He’s pathetic! Courfeyrac swats him on the head and scolds,

“No, Enj, he didn’t say you were a mess; don’t be overdramatic.”

“Overdramatic?! He said I was _boring.”_

“He said you weren’t spontaneous,” Combeferre corrects. “There’s a difference.”

“It’s a subtle one,” allows Courfeyrac, with all the grace and tact of a rock.

“He said I’d forgotten how to live life! He said I’d let myself go, _spiritually_ , and _become my activism,_ that I was _obsessed_ by it and I wanted to know everything about politics but _nothing about myself_ , or about him, and _also_ that I make prejudgements and act on them without going into things open-mindedly, and I’m _not spontaneous_ because I’m too tied up in my so-called ‘grand schemes’! _”_

Courf makes a pained expression, and then pulls a reluctant Enjolras into a tight, slightly too strong hug. _“_ Alright; you’re not being overdramatic,” he agrees. “That is quite damning.”

“Let me go,” snuffles Enjolras. “I’m spontaneous!”

“Yeah, sure,” Courf indulges him, at the same time as Combeferre asks, intrigued,

“What does it mean, _let yourself go spiritually?”_

“It’s just a wanky way of saying that he’s a workaholic who wears the same jumper seven days a week, and doesn’t do anything nice for himself.”

“I do do nice things for myself!”

“Like what?” demands Courf, tone highly sceptical.

“Well, lots of things. For example…last week I went to the park.”

“Enj, that was for a protest,” says Combeferre mildly.

“Fine, alright, what about the time we went to that fancy restaurant on George Street?”

“Because you’d heard the mayor was there and wanted to ambush him?”

“The Ashmolean?”

Courf snorts. “Again, for a protest. You didn’t even go inside!”

“I could see the sculptures through the windows!” cries Enjolras, and then pauses. “Anyway, people do different things to make themselves happy,” he says quietly. “What makes- _made_ me happy was my activism and Christophe.” He bites his lip, feeling tears pricking stubbornly at his eyes again, and determined not to let them fall. “And now they’re both fucked, all because I’m not _spontaneous_ enough!”

“Yes, I’m sure that’ll go down in the history books as the major factor in Thatcher’s election,” Courf says faux-solemnly. Combeferre aims a reproachful swat at him over Enjolras’s foetus-curled form in between them.

For a few minutes, they just lie there in the late morning sunshine, and Courfeyrac is just starting to drift back to sleep when Enjolras says determinedly, in his _I-have-a-new-mission-and-nothing-will-get-in-my-way_ voice, “I _am_ spontaneous.”

“I think you’re fixating a bit on that part, Enj,” says Combeferre. “I think he just wanted you to take more notice of stuff other than your work. You did forget his birthday, after all.”

“I’m not fixating,” he dismisses. “And anyway, I just _am_ spontaneous, and in fact, I’m going to do something _completely_ spontaneous _and_ it’s going to be something nice for me.”

“You’re going to write scathing a scathing think-piece about the use of advertising in the Thatcher campaign?” guesses Courfeyrac.

“I’m going to go on _holiday,”_ announces Enjolras fiercely, unstoppably. And Courfeyrac throws a hand of shock over his forehead with such exaggerated drama that he falls off the side of the bed.

 

Xxxx

 

The thing is, Enjolras was meant to be leaving Oxford with a first class PPE degree, an amazing boyfriend, and a dream job as a Labour MP’s assistant for Putney. And alright, he had the degree, but the Putney seat had swung Conservative in the election and now he’s adrift in the world, and he’s never felt less sure of himself. He’s usually so full of plans and ideas, usually has so much in his head that there isn’t enough time to fit it all in- but the thing is all his campaigning has _failed,_ and Thatcher’s in office, and the future for the left-wing looks decidedly bleak. Immediately post-election result he’d got by on indignation and anger, but that was a poor substitute for the drive of a dream and now he’s just- he’s just so fucking tired and empty. The more he agonises over it, the less he knows what to do. There will be some way; there must be, and he wishes Christophe were still around to bounce ideas off. But then- that was what had broken them, wasn’t it, the fact that Enjolras couldn’t ever stop his work buzzing around in his head.

A holiday will be good for him, he decides. He’s embarrassed to find that he’s no clue where he wants to go, though: he doesn’t really tend to look _up_ from national politics, and he doesn’t know much about the world except regarding international relations. He’s no idea what part of the world he might like to visit merely for _pleasure,_ nor any inkling of what “pleasure” might entail. Beaches, maybe- that was what people did on holiday, wasn’t it? Something about sand was apparently supposed to be appealing.

In the end he goes to a travel agents, and signs up to the first flight the lady mentions. He’s being spontaneous, after all. (Take that, Christophe.)

 

Xxxx

 

It’s not the first time Enjolras has been on a plane. His family is, he’s embarrassed to admit, rather upsettingly upper-middle class. As a result they do things like jet off to Switzerland for skiing and (horror of all horrors) own a holiday home in the north of Italy. Enjolras has successfully evaded all these family activities for going on three years now, pleading ever-increasing levels of busyness with each new call from Mother to _please_ join them for Cousin Tilly’s 21st, or Uncle Rupert’s 50th, or the Bonningtons’ 20th wedding anniversary ‘literary characters’-themed party. If there’s anything Enjolras can’t stand, it’s an intellectual dress-up do. The thing is, he’s not particularly artistic. He doesn’t really- understand it, per-say, thinks it’s rather too indulgent. (This never goes down particularly well with his mother, a prominent academic and literary critic, nor his father, an author and biographer…). When Enjolras had first started school his parents had tried desperately to infuse their only child with some sort of poetic instinct: for a while he’d blundered tone-deaf and blithe through harp and violin lessons; his mother had bought him watercolours and his father had read him Gogol’s short stories at bedtime. Enjolras can still picture their disappointed faces at Lower Two parents’ evening as Mrs Clerkwell tried to gently break it to them that their darling little Enjolras had been turning his ‘creative writing’ prompts into rants about playground injustice, and the flaws of the school’s student council system. He can still see his mother’s sorrowful gaze as his harp teacher suggested that maybe, for all his angelic looks, Enjolras had better stick to an activity that didn’t involve…musicality.

Still, Enjolras had never wanted for parental affection. His mother and father loved him irrevocably, even when he asked a horrified Myrtle Enjolras ‘what the big fuss about Shakespeare’ was, or disclosed to his heartbroken father at 21 that the last novel he’d actually finished was the compulsory text ‘Great Expectations’ in year 11…He was adored anyhow, a golden child of whom his family was constantly finding new reasons to be proud.

Enjolras contemplates finding a book to read this morning, picking up some sort of popular rom-com from the shelves of W H Smith. But in the end the lure of the Hobsbawm in his hand luggage wins out and he wanders rather aimlessly, waiting for his flight to be announced and pondering the evils of captive-market capitalism. He doesn’t, to his chagrin, feel particularly excited to be going on a so-called ‘relaxing’ holiday. In fact he feels rather stressed already, as the thought of all the marches he’ll be missing and the lobbying he won’t be doing spins insistently round his head.

But then he thinks of Christophe, and Christophe saying, ‘ _I don’t know who you are anymore, Enjolras. I don’t even think you know. What would you be if you didn’t have politics?’._ And he marches back to W H Smith and buys himself a trashy romance novel, even though he knows he’s going to hate it.

 

Xxxx

 

On the plane, Enjolras - being an absolute lightweight with a certain nervousness for flying - gets rather tipsy from two calming glasses of white wine, and ends up in a heated argument with the passenger next to him about trade union bargaining power. In the end, the flight attendant asks him to move seats.

It’s not the _best_ start to his holiday, admittedly, but at least it provides an alternative to his romance novel.

 

Xxxx

 

The lady in the travel agency had recommended the Greek island of Kalokairi for its beaches and turquoise waters. Enjolras gets to the mainland and wonders why he should bother crossing more water to get to a different bit of coast. _Isn’t this view of the sea nice enough?_ he thinks, settling on a bench by the port to look at the map to his hotel. To his mind one bit of sand is much the same as any other, and the water is objectively one body after all. He has a single night here booked before the ferry to Kalokairi leaves in the morning, but to be honest he’s tempted simply to stay. The only thing that stops him is Christophe’s voice in his head, whispering at him to look up from his map and appreciate the world around him. And so he takes a deep breath and tries to stop his brain whizzing, searching for a calm he’s never quite reached. He watches the waves and ends up thinking about the factors that had led to the military junta. An old man he’d spoken to at the airport had said they’d exiled suspected communists to the islands, and he wonders if Kalokairi was one of them. He wishes he could speak Greek. Then he’d be able to make the most of his time here.

Eventually the sun starts to sink into the water and he gets up to walk to the hotel, losing his way several times before making it there just before nine. The hotelier is cross with him for being so late but Enjolras attempts charm and dashes a smile across his face that he’s been told is rather effective. She is mollified, somewhat, and hands him the keys to a room with a bed and (more importantly) a desk, where Enjolras scribbles away at various ABC work until three in the morning. Crawling into bed at last, he twists the arms of his little travel alarm clock to seven and falls asleep immediately, flat out exhausted in a strange bed across the world.

 

Xxxx

 

When he wakes up it’s to a rather unpleasant cocktail of confusion and panic as his brain scrambles to figure out where he is and what he’s doing there. There is sun streaming in through the windows and when he finally grabs hold of his alarm clock he sees that it’s quarter to eight already. He must have slept through his alarm, he realises, and falls out of bed to start throwing his things in his backpack. Ten minutes later he’s dressed rather haphazardly, teeth brushed and water splashed on his pillow-creased face. He drops his key off at reception and legs it down the sunny streets to the harbour, feeling a tide of stress and anxiousness threaten to overtake him and arriving sweaty and flustered to the sorry sight of the ferry departing.

“ _Fuck,”_ he swears under his breath, letting his bag drop defeatedly as he gazes at the ferry’s retreating rear. He shades his eyes with a slender hand, letting himself breathe out and feeling his heart rate slow. Maybe it’s a good thing, he thinks; he’s actually somewhat relieved. Just then:

“Looking for a way across, eh?” comes a voice from the side, and Enjolras spins round to find the speaker.

Gazing up at him from the deck of a small yacht is a barefoot young man in torn, rolled up jeans and a white t-shirt that’s too small for him, tight at his muscled arms and exposing a thin sliver of stomach as he raises a hand to shade his eyes in Enjolras’s direction.

Enjolras’s natural reaction is _no thank you._ Missing the boat sort of seems like a sign. His mind is already dashing back to his hotel room, where there had been a desk and quiet and he could squeeze in a couple of hours drafting letters to ministers and planning some speeches. But he pushes that train of thought aside (with considerable difficulty, and a pang of guilt) and allows himself to recognise the soft, warm curling in his stomach for what it is: _attraction._ He blinks, taken slightly by surprise, and looks a little closer at the man in the boat. He’s not the sort of man Enjolras usually finds attractive, although admittedly that “sort” is rather limited to blonde, six-foot-three environmental activists named Christophe.

“Come on,” says the sailor, smiling crookedly, “I haven’t got all day.” He dips into a mock bow, that of a ballerina or a sixteenth century courtier, and adds, “Your chariot awaits, Apollo.” He pauses. “Although. I correct myself; the chariot isn’t _technically_ an apollonian trait. But Apollo suits you better than Helios, I think.”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” says Enjolras, uncertain and _ever so slightly_ intrigued. He catches himself wondering briefly what he looks like right now, face pink and hair all messy from his rushed departure. And then he pushes the frivolous thought down decisively. It’s irrelevant, he tells himself. Why would he care how he looks to this man?

“Believe it or not, I get that a lot,” the man’s saying. “Mainly because eighty six percent of what I talk is utter shite.” That cracks a smile out of Enjolras, and the sailor holds his hand out for his bag. “Kalokairi, yes?” he asks, all mock-politeness and a twist of something else at the corners of his mouth.

Enjolras nods, tipping his head slightly and narrowing his eyes. “How much?” he asks suspiciously, and the sailor throws his head back and laughs.

“Don’t worry yourself, Apollo. I’m going past there anyway; I’m picking my friend up from the next island.” He raises his eyebrows, and waits patiently as Enjolras worries his bottom lip and shifts his bag from one hand to the other. After a few moments he lowers his hand and quotes wryly, “ _How prone to doubt, how cautious are the wise!”_

And that’s it. Enjolras takes a sharp breath and swings his bag down into the hull. “I’m not cautious,” he tells the sailor, and watches a sunshiny sort of delight spring across the young man’s face. Without waiting for the hand to be re-extended he leaps down rather ungracefully and ends up stumbling a moment, steadied by the sailor’s adept hands.

“But wiser than I am, at least,” says the sailor cryptically, and then explains, “It’s never wise for mortals to trifle with lost sun gods, is it?”

Enjolras frowns at him intently, not sure which part of that sentence to address first. “I’m not _lost,”_ he says eventually, missing the mark entirely, and the sailor just laughs.

“Not cautious, not lost; alright, I see. What are you then, Apollo?”

“I’m Enjolras,” he answers, and the sailor nods and moves across to undo the boat’s mooring rope from its knots at the jetty. He grins again over his shoulder, a roguish and dangerously charming thing.

“ _Enjolras,”_ he repeats, in a tone that Enjolras can’t make head or tail of. “It’s an honour to meet you, Enjolras. I’m R.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know next to nothing re sailing at sea. pls feel free to correct me on any nautical nuances xoxo ps. i know pulp was but a twinkle in jarvis cocker's eye in the 70s, but the song just fits q well.

 

 

II

 

“ _She told me that her dad was loaded,_

_I said, ‘In that case I’ll have a rum and coca-cola'”_

Pulp, ‘Common People’

 

It occurs to Enjolras that he knows nothing about R, not even his full name, and probably (definitely) shouldn’t have jumped into a boat with a stranger. But R doesn’t seem like he’s about to murder him anytime soon: rather, he tells Enjolras to stay windwards and mind the boom. They steer out of the harbour in relative quiet, Enjolras enduring a minor internal crisis while R manoeuvres their way free into the glittering ocean. Once they’re a little further out he tightens the mainsail and explains to Enjolras with a dry grin,

“We can’t go directly into the wind; we’ve gotta do a couple of tacks. To save fuel, you know; it’s motor sailing but you gotta work with the wind a little bit anyhow. Just in case you’re wondering if I’m trying to abduct you by not going in the right direction.” He tilts his head winningly, moving about on light feet as he adjusts this and that, heels hardly touching the ground. “Because you look a bit worried, Apollo.”

“I didn’t think that,” insists Enjolras uncomfortably. “I know about- tacking. My mother tried to get me into sailing when I was eight, but I-” He pauses. “- didn’t have the knack for it.”

“Oh _really,”_ pushes R, grinning, back behind the wheel with a playful expression on his face that makes Enjolras squirm with irritation and- something else. “How so?”

Enjolras crosses his arms. “I kept falling out and then I did that thing- you know when the mast goes completely under.”

“Turtling,” R completes, with a snort of a laugh. “Well please refrain from doing that on this boat, Apollo.”

“I was eight! And it’s Enjolras; I told you.” He glances out nervously over the waves. “This boat wouldn’t do that, would it? I’ve got notebooks in my bag.”

R laughs. “I love how _that’s_ what you’re worried about. And no, it would be much harder to turtle this boat. Never fear, Enjolras, your notes are in safe hands.” A few moments pass with the breeze rushing around them. A seagull wheels by, shrieking, and Enjolras feels the salt spray in his face and takes a deep breath. The air is cold and fresh in his lungs. He feels his shoulders drop a little, the tightness in his frame unravelling. “So you’re a student, then?” asks R, casually, as he adjusts the wheel.

Enjolras turns to face him and finds curious brown eyes and a crooked eyebrow. “Yes, just graduated.”

“Let me guess,” says R, cynical grin spreading across his face. “Oxbridge; am I right?”

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “Oxford,” he confirms. “Is this because I was worried about my notes?”

R laughs. “That, and you’re wearing boat shoes. And your _mother tried to get you into sailing._ I bet you went to a school that played fives as well, didn’t you?”

Enjolras’s mouth has dropped open a fraction. “Yes, alright- I had a privileged upbringing.”

“Which one was it? Eton? Harrow?”

“Westminster,” Enjolras tells him begrudgingly.

“Ooh,” says R, “How very cosmopolitan. You’re a Londoner then?”

“Yes,” he grinds out, and then, in an attempt to distract R with an offensive of his own, “What does R stand for, if you don’t mind me asking?”

R grins at him. “You don’t mean that, do you.”

“Whether you mind or not,” amends Enjolras, voice stony.

“Grantaire,” R concedes, like a mocking little dip of a surrender, sword momentarily lowered as a gesture of grace to his opponent. “It stands for Grantaire.”

“And where are you from?”

“I’m from London as well, although not originally.” He snorts. “I suppose you’ve guessed from my accent.”

Enjolras colours, wondering if there’s any way he can get around pronouncing a guess. It’s northern, definitely, but a private-school education followed by Oxbridge is far from the best way to learn the nuances of regional accents. God, he disgusts himself sometimes. But self-flagellation is, of course, nothing but an unproductive indulgence. The least he can do is try and use his privilege for the better.

“When did you move?” he asks instead, swiping a nervous tongue over his lips. There is something about talking to Grantaire that makes him feel off-balance, makes him feel like he used to on the plastic dinghies he was too small to keep upright. He feels like he might be flung off-course any second, like he might have been flung off-course already without noticing.

“For uni,” says Grantaire, contained without being curt. He’s smiling still with a detached sort of amusement at the whole conversation. Enjolras feels a thrum of frustration at that. The man’s smirk in itself is intensely frustrating; it seems to say smugly _there’s a joke you’re not in on._

“And where-”

“St Martins; I did Fine Art.” He grins. “I could paint you, if you’d like. Unless you’ve already got a family portrait hanging up in your living room, that is?”

“We haven’t,” snaps Enjolras. It’s true. They do have a commissioned portrait of their dogs though; two black labradors (of course) called Woolf and Nessa. He’s not sure if that’s perhaps worse.

“ _Well_ then,” Grantaire is saying, and his gaze flickers playfully over Enjolras in a way that makes his cheeks heat up. “I could paint you as Apollo killing Python. You look just about ready to off someone.” He pauses, and his mouth twists into a hardly suppressed grin. “I do apologise for winding you up. It’s like the scorpion and the frog though, isn’t it. I’m your only way across.”

Enjolras stares at him confusedly, wondering if he’s stumbled into a parallel universe where everyone speaks in cryptic crossword clues. “I don’t know what you’re on about,” he says crossly.

“Don’t worry yourself, Apollo. It’s simple reverse snobbery. Haven’t you noticed the boat dipping under the weight of the chip on my shoulder?”

Enjolras snorts at that, and watches as Grantaire’s smile softens a little, loses a bit of its harsh razor-sharpness. “So you’re an artist?” he tries tentatively.

“Depends who you’re asking. HRMC-wise, I’m a barista.”

Enjolras sighs, frustrated. “But you paint?”

“Yes,” says Grantaire, relenting with a charming tip of his head. “It’s true, I do indeed paint. I also dance ballet, collect endearingly ugly mugs and occasionally dabble in boxing. We’ve all got our vices, I suppose.” He adjusts the sails, leaning out a little as if assessing the wind on the waves ahead, and then dips back into the boat to meet Enjolras’s eyes again. “What’s yours, Apollo?”

Enjolras looks down at his feet; his foolish boat shoes. “I think that’s rather my problem. I’m not really a hobbies sort of person. I just do- politics, mostly, research and activism.”

Grantaire makes a faux-retching sound. “Why anyone would willingly choose politics as their hobby is beyond me. Hobbies are supposed to be entertaining and enjoyable, surely. Except for, I don’t know. Acapella.”

“It’s worth more than entertainment, surely.”

“What, acapella?”

“No, politics. People don’t just get involved for entertainment.”

Grantaire laughs. “I suppose not. There’s money and prestige to be had there as well, I’ll admit. As good a choice as any, Apollo. I’ll listen out for you on PMQs.”

“No, that’s not- I mean, I get involved because I want to make a difference, as trite as that sounds.”

“And it does sound _very_ trite,” Grantaire inputs matter-of-factly.

“Isn’t there anything that you’d like to change about the world?”

“Well yes, of course, personally I think a benevolent dictatorship might be for the best. Abolish parliament, pick a name out of a hat. It would get rid of the pantomimic hypocrisy of the whole thing, at least.”

Enjolras stares at him, gobsmacked and readying himself to verbally eviscerate the man, when he sees a grin sneak across Grantaire’s face.

“You’re winding me up again, aren’t you?” he growls. “If there’s anyone being trite here, it’s you.”

“Can I make it up to you with a peace cigarette?”

Enjolras glares at him. “I don’t smoke,” he says haughtily, and then when Grantaire gives him a ‘suit yourself’ sort of a shrug he adds, “I’ve an addictive personality. Obsessive, according to some. If I started I’d be ruined.”

“Who calls you obsessive?” enquires Grantaire, eyebrow raised mildly.

Enjolras forces a laugh. “My boyfriend.” He corrects himself awkwardly. “Ex boyfriend. It’s true; though. I am.”

It’s only when silence has reigned for a few seconds and he looks up to catch Grantaire staring at him strangely, expression opaque, that he realises he’s just outed himself to a complete stranger, alone at sea. Fucking hell, he thinks, _please god, don’t let him be a homophobic arsehole._ When Grantaire opens his mouth his heart is thrumming uncomfortably but Grantaire just says,

“What a dick.” He smiles, nodding conspiratorially to Enjolras. “No wonder he’s an ex, hm?”

“Actually he dumped me,” Enjolras tells him. He hasn’t a clue why he is telling Grantaire any of this but the words just spill out, clumsy and irksome into the perfect peace of their surroundings.

“ _What?”_ demands Grantaire. The word is almost a squawk. “The fuck he dumped you. You’re having a laugh.”

A pleased, shocked little smile springs genuine across Enjolras’s face. “I’m flattered by the outrage but no, I’m not having a laugh and yes, he did dump me.”

“What a fucking idiot,” says Grantaire, and then, before Enjolras has time to process or respond to that, “So that’s why you’re out here finding yourself _,_ huh?”

And he’s back to glaring. “No. I’m out here because I want to be and I decided to do something I wanted because I was feeling- spontaneous.” The word feels fraudulent on his tongue. He glares harder, and Grantaire bursts out laughing.

“Of course you did, Apollo. I believe you entirely.”

 

Xxxx

 

Grantaire informs him they should anchor up for the evening and do the last leg in the morning, when the winds are more favourable. They anchor by a closer island in a sheltered bit of water, Grantaire sorting the sails and making sure the boat’s secure before coming to sit by Enjolras, gazing out over the flat expanse of blue. He and Éponine do this route a lot, he explains, and Enjolras asks,

“Who’s Éponine?” There’s a momentary funny feeling in his chest.

“She’s my best friend,” Grantaire says, and for the first time his expression looks genuinely warm and open, unguarded. The funny feeling intensifies. “She’s the friend I’m picking up after Kalokairi, actually; she’s been on an enforced holiday with some of her aunts.” He slings a lopsided smile at Enjolras. “Probably hating every second. They’re obsessed with her getting married and having a baby, although to be honest a mini Eponine would be fucking terrifying; one is bad enough.”

Enjolras forces himself to smile. “Do you know her from uni?” he asks.

“From pre-school.” Grantaire laughs. “She pulled me out of a toy car by my feet, got in and scooted away. So I knew she was someone you’re better off having on your side.”

“Does she live here? In Greece?”

“No; we both live in Brixton. Us and an extremely elusive flatmate called Richard whom we’ve met a collective total of three times. I honestly swing between thinking he’s a serial killer or an MI5 agent.” He hums. “On the other hand, he could just be incredibly socially awkward, I suppose.”

“I used to live with Christophe, mostly,” Enjolras tells him quietly. “His flat was lovely. He had plants everywhere, but they were all useful. Herbs and stuff, and mini chillies.”

Grantaire bashes his shoulder gently into Enjolras’s. “He sounds sickening. I bet he had one of those tie-dye embroidered tapestries on the wall, didn’t he.”

That startles a laugh out of Enjolras. “He did, actually. It was pretty ugly as well. Purple and green.”

“Well there you go! Bet you’re glad you’re rid of him. Purple and green, what an absolute arse.”

“He told me I needed to live more. He does have a bit of a point.”

Grantaire snorts. “‘Live more’, god help us. What utter banal rubbish. You can’t choose to live _more;_ you just live till you die. What are you supposed to do, breathe extra deep? Make me-time for more heartbeats? We wake up, live and we sleep and live and we repeat it and that’s it; isn’t it. Living isn’t something you can do more of.”

Enjolras says, “I think he just meant you can be more in the moment-" Grantaire scoffs again, but he forges ahead. "For me, stuff passes me by sometimes because I’m thinking about political goings on _all the time-_ and I guess for you, maybe you remove yourself by mocking everything.”

Grantaire’s expression shutters, shocked, and Enjolras realises abruptly that this is one of those times in which he’s been far too brutally honest for his own good. “I’m sorry, I-” he begins clumsily, but Grantaire interrupts him.

“No, don’t worry. You’re right, of course.” His expression is still unreadable. For a few moments there is quiet, just the sound of the waves slapping up against the hull as Enjolras stares out at the clean line of the horizon. Gulls loop recklessly through the air, beaks wide with their cries as they spin seamless, wings outstretched. The sea is so purely blue it almost hurts to look at.

Grantaire nudges him again. When Enjolras glances round nervously he’s smiling, a small but affable smile. He says, “Do you want to swim? The water’s not too cold around here and the sun shouldn’t go down for a little while.”

Enjolras nods immediately, even though he’s never really seen the point of recreational swimming. Here, with Grantaire, it seems suddenly far more appealing. They strip off their clothes and dive in, Grantaire first and then Enjolras, and Enjolras gasps at the shock of the water on his skin and then for some reason bursts out giggling, panting and joyful as they splash around.

“How’s this for living?” Grantaire demands breathlessly, beaming at him smugly with his curls tossed wet across his forehead. He pushes a hand through them and Enjolras takes the opportunity of his distraction to say,

“It’s alright, yeah,” as he splashes an armful of water in Grantaire’s face. Grantaire falls back spluttering and then lunges forward,

“You _bastard,”_ he gasps out, laughing. Enjolras can’t stop giggling rather deviously but karma comes to get him as Grantaire splashes him back and he ends up with a mouthful of seawater, coughing hard through his laughter and feeling far happier than he has done in- _weeks._

Xxxx

 

From the water Enjolras watches Grantaire pull himself deftly back onto the boat, feels his breath catch in his throat at the way his muscles ripple in the glinting sunshine, the sparkle of the water on his tanned wet skin. He tries and fails to pull his gaze off Grantaire’s arse and when the man turns round Enjolras feels himself flush red all over. He hopes Grantaire can’t see it from up there, can’t see the way his mouth drops slightly open as he watches Grantaire ready himself for another dive, all lithe grace and contained strength. Shaking the water from his dark curls he grins, white teeth sharp and wicked. And then he swings his arms above his head and dives, fast and precise as a dart, a kingfisher, slicing crisply into the water with only the smallest of splashes. When he surfaces, he’s laughing like a boy, dimples and everything. Enjolras swallows down a sudden lump in his throat.

 

Xxxx

 

While they sit on deck drying they somehow get into an argument about poverty and education access. Well, Grantaire says, ‘somehow’, he’s well aware he poked Enjolras into it purely to see his eyes flash, purely to watch the way the colour rises on his cheeks as he flings his hands around and crafts sentences like fucking daggers, precise and brutal. He’s a bottled hurricane when he talks like this, all full of suppressed movement with his hair messy and words sharp. _Rays of light rise from about his brow, and his cheek emits a smile mingled with wrath,_ thinks Grantaire _._ He feels like he’s playing with fire. He knows he’s being foolish; he’d always been the sort of child to burn his fingers playing ‘chicken’ with matches. 

Grantaire finds Enjolras magnetic and he’s no doubt that he’s going to do great things. But people like Enjolras have always done great things. On the other hand, Grantaire’s always been of the opinion that some people (like him, like his parents) are just fucked. It’s family, isn’t it; it’s where you’re born. It had been his nan and Eponine who helped him scramble his way up into Central St Martins and without them he’d probably be lying right next to his father in Philips Park Cemetery, bottle in hand. Or worse: plodding his way through the hell of a life with no upwards trajectory, just soul-sucking mundane nothingness on every side he looked. Enjolras says: grants, opportunities, diversity. And Grantaire thinks: _Westminster, Westminster, Westminster._ You’ve no fucking idea.

 

Xxxx

 

“You’re very earnest,” Grantaire tells him in a curiously detached sort of a tone, lifting his cigarette carefully to his lips.

Enjolras scoffs. “Oh god, don’t call me that that; _earnest_ is practically synonymous with _naive.”_ He stands up, crossing the deck in frustration as he sing-songs, “ _Earnest little Enjolras,_ trying so hard! How very sweet, how very darling, how very fucking naive.” His voice has turned abruptly cold. Grantaire watches him, quiet and still, and blows out smoke in an unhurried way that makes Enjolras absolutely _itch_ with irritation. He wants to shake Grantaire, to jolt him out of his complacency.

“God forbid they think you _sweet_ ,” says Grantaire, with a crooked flash of a not-quite-smile. “What adjectives do you favour then, Lord Chamberlain? What words are your adoring crowd allowed?”

Enjolras glares at him, feeling his cheeks reddening, well aware that he is being wound up and clueless how to stop it. “Surely you see that praise like that is meant to be belittling,” he tries. “It’s just- dressed up dismissal, isn’t it, like, _and you’re still so young!”_

 _“_ You are young,” says Grantaire, unmoved. “Young and- well, you’ve grown up in a bubble, haven’t you; you’re hardly an authority on the world. So, who cares, if you have such qualms with earnest, let’s say _fervent; ardent. Enjolras and his ardent little heart_.”

“Fuck you,” Enjolras spits, spinning round and coming to stand directly in front of Grantaire. “So what, you think nobody should try until- god, what’s the age you suddenly become an _authority;_ what’s the age you’re suddenly qualified enough to stop fucking _watching_ injustice and do something about it?”

Grantaire stands up abruptly, and Enjolras tries his best to ignore the odd, pleasant little fizzle of shock that goes through him as he registers their height difference. He has to raise his chin to look Grantaire in the eye, and Grantaire looks down at him from his sudden, bewildering proximity and tells him sharply, “A lot of people aren’t just watching, Apollo. Yes, you’re earnest; yes, you’re naive. And that will _never change_ , because you’ll always have options that other people don’t, you’ll always have some sort of control over your life. You think you can step in from the sidelines and say _alright, that’s enough,_ but you can’t see that there’s some things that you’ll never understand. Life is awful, sometimes.” He pauses, eyes dark, and quotes dryly, _“So it goes.”_

Enjolras counts to five, forcing himself to breathe out his irritation and automatic defensiveness and say slowly, “Alright. I know I’ve limitations. I don’t think that means I should sit back and do nothing.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow, the momentary vulnerability of engagement gone. Enjolras _watches_ him assume his cloak of detachment again and he feels like he’s failed; he wants to grab onto Grantaire and somehow twist his way through the barriers; he wants to make him _feel._

 _“_ Do you think I should just sit back and do nothing?” he prods determinedly, obnoxiously, and Grantaire smiles at him.

“I think I’d better not keep administering medicine to the dead,” he quips, folding his arms.

Enjolras gapes. “You fucker. That’s Thomas Paine, isn’t it? You think you can quote _Thomas Paine_ at me and have me believe you care about _nothing?”_

 _“_ I read him expressly to misuse him,” Grantaire tells him, and laughs in the face of his glare. “Believe what you want,” he says, spreading his long fingers and moving to adjust the sails, conversation apparently over. “I choose to believe in nothing."

 

Xxxxx

 

The more Grantaire learns about Enjolras, the more out of place he feels beside him. Enjolras is- _princely,_ almost, he’s golden and clever and has lived a life that helped him upwards instead of squashing him down. He has the innate confidence of someone to whom everything has always been _possible,_ to whom progress seems only a question of _when_ rather than _how._ Grantaire, on the other hand, is the poster boy for imposter syndrome: he’d spent the first few months at St Martins hopelessly pretending that this wasn’t his first time in London since a trip in year 3 with his Sunday school. His mum’s a Manchester primary school teacher who’d had to take in ironing on the side after his dad - a third-generation Italian from Ancoats who’d worked as a line manager in the Kellogg’s factory - began a purse-draining love affair with booze. From then on life had become increasingly bleak. Grantaire - a bright kid who’d sailed the 11-plus into grammar school, much to the ridicule of his father - started slipping down the form rankings. For almost a year he gave up on art, started drinking himself and almost got kicked out of school at sixteen. It’s a miserable story and not, Grantaire thinks, a particularly interesting one: when he looks back to that time his stomach still turns with the sting of belt-buckle-bruises and the guilty chemical taste of cheap alcohol, the sticky sluggishness of always being too tired to think his way out of the nightmare. To cut a long story short he owes his education to the combined forces of Eponine and his Nonna. He’d spent the last year of sixth form living in a tiny flat with Eponine (and, more often than not, her siblings), learning to paint again away from the toxic influence of his dad. And after that Nonna, a keen amateur artist herself, had loaned him the money he needed to get started in London before his part-time jobs made enough to pay her back.

Nowadays the past should be behind him: he has a _degree,_ for god’s sake, and although he still does bar-tending and works in a cafe; he’s also had his work in acouple of youth-showcasing galleries. A few of his paintings have even been _bought,_ which seems utterly surreal, and lately he’s had people asking him for portrait commission work as well. So all in all, he’s not doing too shabbily, but there’s still that sense of inadequacy that tails him like a shadow. Whenever he thinks he’s done well it’s there, whispering over his shoulder that _it_ _won’t last, it can’t last, who the hell do you think you are?_ Success is not for the likes of Grantaire. Success is for those like Enjolras, who expect it and have always kept a place laid at the table for it.

Enjolras who’s currently _on Grantaire’s boat,_ humming and chopping up salad ingredients in his swim shorts with his hair tangling wildly in the breeze. Something in the universe has got mixed up, thinks Grantaire, resisting the urge for another cigarette. They’re about to eat tea together, he and this star that’s fallen shining into his commonplace life. He finds the bread in the cabin and brings it out, tearing a bit off the end to chew on as he goes.

“Hey, don’t eat that,” cries Enjolras, shooting him a frowning little smile. He pauses. “Also, I don’t suppose you have a jumper I could borrow? It’s getting a bit chilly out here.”

“As you wish, Apollo.” He hands over the bread and pops back into the cabin.

When he re-emerges Enjolras is leaning out over the railings, the sun making his hair glow like spun-gold, his skin warm and golden. When he turns around and grins Grantaire notices a dimple in his cheek, like a tiny dent in butter, and he has to take a deep breath to steel himself against the onslaught of desire. It almost aches. He says,

“ _Pour toi_ ,” handing over his sweater, and Enjolras shrugs it on over his head.

“Shall we eat?” he says. “I’ve chopped up all the vegetables you gave me.”

“What an _extremely_ helpful passenger you are,” teases Grantaire.

Enjolras beams, cheekily. “You’ll have to have me on here more often, then.”

 

Xxxxx

 

They eat salad with jarred olives and bread and oil and vinegar from Eponine’s little cupboard (Grantaire resolves to pay her back in love and affection and perhaps an apology bottle of cheap wine. Then again, he can’t count how many teabags Eponine has stolen from him over the years, so maybe they’re even).

“So your friend- Eponine- you own this boat together?” asks Enjolras, bringing his knee up to prop his hands and chin on. The jumper is big on him, covering his hands so only the tips of his fingers peep out. He looks- youthful, and lovely, expecting answers as if it’s his due.

Grantaire laughs. “Only in our dreams,” he says wryly. “Ponine’s uncle owns it; he lives in Poros. I’ve been here the last two summers since I’ve been able to save a bit. But before that- well, Eponine’s parents had a brief period of being loaded before they went bankrupt. They used to own a boat on Dove Stone Reservoir and Ponine and I would go there to sail it. Her mum went to prison for fraud, though, so it got sold.”

Enjolras’s eyes widen. “Naturally,” he says, voice wry, and then seems to hesitate, looking down. For a few moments he’s quiet, and the air is filled only with the sounds of Grantaire’s Edith Piaf record, and the gentle slap of waves against the hull. “You and Eponine,” he ventures, when he raises his gaze to meet Grantaire’s again. “You’re…?” He trails off, and Grantaire shakes his head with a slightly horrified laugh.

“No, god, nothing like that. We’re co-sailors; she’s kind of like- my sister. She’s my best friend. But nothing like that.”

Enjolras nods, decisively. “Alright,” he says, and smiles.

 

Xxxx

 

A few glasses of wine later they clash amiably over access to art versus the protection of artists’ intellectual property. Enjolras gets the feeling Grantaire is half just riling him up deliberately, but for some reason or other he doesn’t mind. It’s fun to spar with Grantaire, and anyhow it seems like arguing is the best way to get the man to spill anything about himself. In this case: how excruciatingly difficult it is to scrape a living from art and how he has to supplement it with barista and bar work and money from gigs.

“You’re in a band?”

    “I am indeed. Eponine is too; she’s the drummer. We play exclusively Bee Gees.”

“You’re joking,” says Enjolras, narrowing his eyes.

“Good spot. I’ve never played a Bee Gees song in my life. I’d rather pluck my own eyes out with a fork.”

“What do you play, then?”

Grantaire grins, sharp-toothed and taunting. Everything is a taunt with him; he speaks exclusively in dares, every word another gauntlet on the ground. He says, with a waggle of his expressive eyebrows, “Why don’t you guess?”

“I don’t really- do music,” admits Enjolras uncomfortably, and Grantaire laughs at him, not unkindly.

“God, you weren’t bloody joking when you said your only hobby was politics.”

“Politics isn’t-”

“A hobby; got it Apollo.” He smirks. “Whatever you say.”

“What’s your band called?” Enjolras asks him, determinedly not getting sidetracked. He leans forward, fixing his eyes warmly on Grantaire because he’s _interested_ in Grantaire’s life, sincerely. For some reason he wants to be able to build up a picture of what the world looks like to Grantaire; he wants to imagine Grantaire’s life in London, tubes and rain and daily inconveniences. 

“The Pastel Statics; don’t ask why. I think we were all rather drunk when we came up with that one.”

Enjolras smiles. “I like it. And do you sing?”

Grantaire is looking at him curiously, like he’s unsure why Enjolras cares so much. To be honest Enjolras is unsure too, but he does want to know. Grantaire says, “Yes, I sing.” His cheeks are dusted with an ever-so-slight blush. Enjolras is fucking delighted. He pushes his advantage.

“What do you enjoy about it?” he asks. Demands, almost. He thinks for a moment Grantaire will deflect with a joke but he doesn’t. He says, not meeting Enjolras’s eyes,

“Oddly, it’s the only time I don’t feel self-conscious.”

 

Xxxx

 

As the sun sets Grantaire puts on the Velvet Underground and Enjolras sits staring as pinks and oranges stain the sky like ink spilled onto fabric, fluffy strips of clouds stretched finely over the horizon. Lou Reed croons about mountaintops and peaks and wanting someone, achingly. When Enjolras peeks round he finds Grantaire’s brown eyes on him. His expression is unreadable but he grins sheepishly as soon as Enjolras catches his gaze and ducks his head down a little. Enjolras feels a twist of something like endearment in his chest. Something like confusion, excitement. Something like anticipation.

 

Xxxx

 

Grantaire can’t sleep for thinking about Enjolras. His proximity feels like a physical itch, and Grantaire tosses and turns with his eyes screwed shut before giving up and staring at the ceiling. His mind races, startled out of the foggy sluggishness that’s plagued him for months, and he thinks about this morning and the fact that, just hours ago, _he’d never met Enjolras._ It seems astonishing, unbelievable now. Enjolras’s sharp laugh has stitched itself into his skin, the sheer force of his personality something Grantaire doubts he’ll ever recover from. Grantaire feels suddenly _alive,_ shockingly so, and he thinks with a painful ache of Enjolras just behind the wooden wall. He thinks of his golden curls spread out upon Grantaire’s own blankets, his milky skin wrapped up in Grantaire’s own clothes. Before he knows it he’s half hard, and he stifles a groan, turning forcibly away from the wall between them because it’s _terrible_ to be thinking of Enjolras like this while he’s so fucking close, just separated by-

-well, nothing, apparently, because at that moment a soft voice says ‘ _R’_ by his door, and he scrambles up to see Enjolras stood there, paused in the gap with his hand on the doorframe. He looks devastating, so fucking lovely by moonlight: softer and sweeter with his hands peeping out of Grantaire’s knit jumper. It’s huge on him, hanging just below his arse, and Grantaire feels his breath punched out of him by the sight.

“Hello,” he forces out stupidly, as if his skin isn’t burning up with desire. “Are you alright?”

Enjolras is staring at him, eyes wide, and then his gaze drops and he says, “Yes, fine, sorry. Just saying goodnight.”

“Okay,” croaks Grantaire. “Goodnight, Apollo.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Enjolras tells him, fingers toying with the hem of his jumper as Grantaire swallows and wonders if he should thank or curse whatever wicked twist of fate has seen fit to end him this way. Enjolras flashes an awkward smile. “Goodnight, then.”

And then the doorway is empty, just velvety darkness and chipped moonlit paint again, and Grantaire stares at it and wonders if he imagined the whole encounter. He flops back onto his pillows and tries to breathe out slowly, to ignore the hard insistence of his cock.

“ _Fuck,”_ he breathes out, heart racing, feeling utterly destroyed. Perhaps if he squeezes his eyes shut he’ll be able to shut out the memory of Enjolras, he thinks, and he’s trying to do so when his own name shatters the dark once more. He scrambles up and there’s Enjolras again, blushing to such an extent that it’s evident even in the dim silver light of the moon through the cabin windows.

“Sorry,” he says roughly. His eyes are fixed intently to Grantaire’s, not allowing either of them any mercy as he continues, “It’s just. I’d like- _shit.”_ He breaks Grantaire’s gaze, swallowing so hard Grantaire can see the movement of his pale throat- and Grantaire can’t understand, can’t bear the tantalising possibility of this, because surely- If it were anyone else he would perhaps allow himself a little comprehension, but the idea that _Enjolras,_ that such an otherworldly perfect being might want to- with Grantaire, of all people, so flawed and awful and so fucking mortal- He’s powerless to do anything but stare, and it’s only as Enjolras ducks his head and makes to disappear again that he scrambles forward, desperate for him not to leave.

“Apollo, wait,” he chokes out, and then - before he can think himself out of the audacity - “Come here.”

He watches, heart in his throat, as Enjolras fucking _crumples_ into softness, the harsh tension rushing from him as he melts like a puppet with its strings cut. Grantaire holds his arms out on instinct and before he can even take a breath he has Enjolras pressed into him, clumsy and achingly sweet and smelling of clean blankets and cinnamon. And _god,_ Grantaire can hardly bear it, how overwhelmingly perfect this feels as Enjolras throws his arms around his neck and Grantaire captures his warm mouth with his own. Enjolras yields immediately to the kiss, giving a tiny whimper of shocked-out pleasure as Grantaire’s tongue invades the heat of him. It feels abruptly, joltingly intimate, and Grantaire tightens his grip on Enjolras’s slim waist. Enjolras’s hands have somehow tangled themselves in the curls at the nape of Grantaire’s neck, and Grantaire gasps his way out of the kiss to look Enjolras in the face, breath catching as he takes in Enjolras’s blown pupils and flushed cheeks, the redness of his lovely mouth. “Apollo,” he forces himself to say, “Are you- are you sure about this?”

Enjolras’s eyes narrow, and his hands tighten further in Grantaire’s hair. “Call me by my name _,”_ he demands in a steely, determined voice, and Grantaire bids farewell to his self-preservation and obliges softly,

“ _Enjolras._ Are you sure about this?”

Enjolras gives a little rewarding smile, leans back slightly in Grantaire’s lap and uses one hand to brush the curls off his forehead. “I am _one hundred and fifty percent sure,”_ he says, and then bites his lip before gathering his confidence and announcing boldly, imperiously, “I want you to fuck me.”

Grantaire can only blink at him, the fabric of his humdrum life pulled firmly out from under him to show stars and space and _possibility,_ and he’s filled with a nameless, sparking feeling that he mistakes briefly for terror but suddenly thinks might be hope. Enjolras misreads his silence, his characteristic self-assurance fading as he ducks his head and adds, “Only if you’d like to, of course.”

“If I’d- _god,_ ” Grantaire rasps in disbelief. “Apollo- _Enjolras-_ have you _met_ yourself?”

Enjolras looks up at him again, expression raw and vulnerable, tongue peeking out briefly to lick his bottom lip before he says almost inaudibly, hesitant, “In a good way?”

Grantaire takes Enjolras’s jaw in his palm, ever so gentle, and presses his thumb to his plump mouth. “In the best way,” he assures him, very quiet in the soft space between them, and dips to press a kiss to Enjolras’s throat. Enjolras keens, the noise startled out of him, and whimpers as Grantaire’s kisses turn into bites, his hot mouth licking and sucking at the porcelain skin. Throwing his head back, Enjolras feels wanton and _desirable,_ in a heady way that Christophe - for all his virtues - had never encouraged. He had never felt good enough for Christophe, had always been caught up and constrained by _trying,_ but now he feels his control slip away and he only clutches Grantaire closer, still closer, and cries out as Grantaire’s large, calloused hand slips under his jumper and captures a nipple.

“ _Please,”_ whispers Enjolras into the dark, into the heat of Grantaire’s skin, and Grantaire answers,

“Anything, darling, I promise, anything.” He is a cynic, and he does not make promises lightly, and he is telling the absolute, terrible truth. Again he takes Enjolras’s mouth and grips his hips to turn him over, laid like a prize against Grantaire’s warm sheets. “God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he tells him, and he has to close his eyes a second because it almost _hurts,_ looking at Enjolras; it is like looking directly into the sun. Enjolras’s eyes are heavy-lidded with pleasure but he is gazing straight at Grantaire, honeyed and wondering as if Grantaire, by some sort of temporary enchantment, is anything to look at.

“So are you,” he says shyly. Grantaire brushes the words off with a laugh like the joke they are, dips down to bite reprovingly at the crook of Enjolras’s neck. Next he helps Enjolras push his jumper up and over his head, leaving his hair a mess and his face flushed, both of them giggling stupidly at the ungainliness of it. Then Enjolras pulls him back down into a kiss, and when they part Enjolras stares daringly him right in the eye as he dips his small hand down into Grantaire’s boxers and takes hold of his cock.

“Fuck,” gasps Grantaire, the word knocked out of him, and Enjolras beams like a minx, pleased and sweet as his brow furrows and he dedicates himself to his task. There is only one word to describe him like this and it is undeniably _earnest,_ although Grantaire knows Enjolras would skin him if he voiced it. Instead he knocks Enjolras’s hand away and takes both his wrists in one hand, pinning them above his golden head as he eyelashes flutter and he mewls, taken by surprise. “Stay,” Grantaire tells him roughly, rising for the briefest moment to kick off his boxers and fumble in the bedside drawer for lube. When he returns his gaze to Enjolras he’s still laid as Grantaire left him, and Grantaire thinks, _this boy is going to end me._ Back in their shared warmth, he watches Enjolras smirk like molasses, evidently aware of his effect on Grantaire.

“Come on then,” he says mischievously, and Grantaire kisses the smirk right off his lips. He arches under him, warm and eager and done with teasing, but Grantaire knows this night is the stuff of fairytales and will not be repeated; he cannot help but prolong it. And so he works Enjolras up into little choked-off gasps and whimpered ‘ _R’_ s, until his lithe body’s trembling and he’s begging _‘please, please’_ as Grantaire opens him, achingly slow. He wants to lay a claim forever, wants to be the only one allowed so very close, but all he can do is wreck him reverently, devotedly, so that he might remember. Enjolras has closed his eyes, damp lashes quivering like butterfly wings against his cheeks, but Grantaire tells him, “ _Look at me,_ Enjolras, darling, look at me.”

Enjolras blinks his eyes open dazedly, pupils huge and gaze imploring, desperate. “R,” he tries again, and this time Grantaire answers him with,

“ _Yes_ darling, that’s it, so fucking lovely.” His voice is harsh with straining, but the words still sound butter-soft. “You’re beautiful, so beautiful, my darling Enjolras,” he says, and enters him smoothly. Enjolras cries out like he’s screaming a prayer, clinging to Grantaire’s sweat-slick muscles as they rock together, miles from anywhere, and Enjolras feels himself being remade.

 

Xxxxx

 

They fuck again in the early morning, sunlight streaming in and making Enjolras’s hair glow gold as Grantaire pushes into him, slow and unhurried. He is warm and pliant from the night before, like molten sunshine in Grantaire’s hands, and he tips his head back, baring his throat and throwing his arm behind his head in a wordless surrender to absolute pleasure, to the aching satiation he’s denied himself so long. He’s floating, Grantaire the only thing pinning him to earth, and he pushes himself into Grantaire’s touch and thinks _god, please, never stop._

 

Xxxxx

 

“I haven’t much in the way of breakfast, I’m afraid,” says Grantaire later, wearing only swim trunks as he ducks out of the cabin. Enjolras turns his head from where he’s lying on the deck, sunning himself as they procrastinate taking the anchor up and setting off again. He feels lax and warm and _happy,_ stretching out his toes in the sun and smiling as he answers,

“I don’t mind. I’m learning to embrace the life of a hardy seafarer.”

“Oh really,” Grantaire teases, leaning up against the cabin door. His arms are folded, muscles more pronounced and skin golden in the sun, and Enjolras has to blink himself back from staring as Grantaire mocks dryly, “Ship’s biscuit alright then?”

“Aye captain,” says Enjolras obligingly, happily. He watches Grantaire’s gaze darken, and for a moment he thinks (hopes) Grantaire might stride over and kiss him but instead he smiles and says,

“No ship’s biscuit I’m afraid, Apollo, so you can’t get the full hardy seafaring experience. I can however offer you a magnificent selection of grapes or chocolate digestives.” He pauses, grins wider, boyish and loveable. “Or both, if you’re feeling particularly wild.”

Enjolras flops down onto his back and eyes Grantaire upside down, smiling back. “Let’s have both and make grape-and-chocolate-biscuit sandwiches, what do you say?”

“I say, _you’re a culinary genius,_ Apollo.” Grantaire beams at him, and they hold each other’s gazes a little too long, and Enjolras’s neck hurts from looking upside down but he keeps looking, wishing Grantaire would come over here and kiss him, wishing Grantaire would call him Enjolras again.

 

Xxxx

 

Grantaire has brought out his little record player and he says, “We’ll set off when this finishes,” placing a Billie Holiday record on and leaning back to look at Enjolras through eyes narrowed in the sunshine. His lashes are long and dark and he looks so _lovely,_ and Enjolras wants the record to last forever and he says, almost bashfully,

“I like your music.”

Grantaire smiles, soft and warm, and tells him in an faux-dramatic tone, “ _And so_ I seek your favour with my song.”

Enjolras walks over to him, boldly, and dares to reach a hand to the back of his head, fingers pressing oh-so-delightedly into the curls Enjolras has been longing to touch once more since this morning. “Are you quoting again?” he questions softly.

“Misquoting,” Grantaire corrects him, making space between his legs for Enjolras to stand. “And of course; always.” His hands have come up to take hold of Enjolras’s waist, weather-callused and strong against Enjolras’s soft skin. Enjolras dips and presses their faces together, astonished at his own boldness. But he feels like he’s in a fairytale: caught up in this perfect bubble of happiness that has no need for everyday caveats, no need to last on land. And so he kisses Grantaire on his chapped lips and tells him softly,

“Thank you for this morning. And yesterday.” He flushes, and adds with a wicked little grin, “And in between.”

Grantaire has an odd expression on his face, and Enjolras thinks he’s probably got this part a bit wrong, but then, he’s never had a one-night-stand before. He evidently hasn’t made that much of a grave error, though, because after a moment Grantaire pulls him down again, so that Enjolras ends up sat on his lap, and kisses him as Enjolras winds his arms around his neck. When they part for breath Grantaire says with a mocking smile, “The honour was all mine, Apollo.”

“I feel- you’ve made me happier than I’ve felt in a while,” Enjolras murmurs. “This little voyage. I feel- revived, a bit; I know it seems silly to say it.” He’s being truthful; there’s no reason not to be. His usual intimacy barriers seem curiously absent. But this is apparently not one-night-stand etiquette: Grantaire’s smile is a little brittle as he pulls them back into light-hearted territory, teasing,

“Ready to take on your next Christophe-bashing acts of spontaneity?” Enjolras supposes he hasn’t a right to feel disappointed. And so,

“ _Extremely_ ready,” he says, grinning. He’s pleased to realise that the deadly word ‘Christophe’ has lost some of its potency: he feels only a little ache in his stomach, and his smile hasn’t faltered a jot. His fingers are still tangled absentmindedly in Grantaire’s curls, and he strokes the soft hair at the back of his neck as he adds, “Who knows what might come next?”

Grantaire is quiet for a few moments, and then he presses a hard kiss to the corner of Enjolras’s mouth and shuffles him off his lap to stand up. “The music’s done,” he says in explanation, not quite meeting Enjolras’s eyes, and moves away to pull up the anchor.

 

Xxxxx

 

They come into port in relative quiet, Grantaire concentrating on manoeuvring them in through the couple of other moored vessels while Enjolras wonders what he should do first on the island. He’s feeling rather exhilarated now, glad he didn’t give up while still on the mainland. He pokes at his customary feeling of guilt for not working, pressing as if on an old bruise to see if it’s still there. It is, but the feeling is far weaker than it had been. There’s room now for excitement, for stretching his toes thrillingly into the sand of free time. Courf and Ferre are coming to visit him in a week, having somehow inveigled their way into part of his solo trip. There’s a lot he wants to fit in before they arrive.

Once they’re moored Grantaire hops across the boat to grab his bag and returns with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Enjolras finds his gaze roving over him appreciatively one last time, the broad-shouldered strength of him, the way his salt-tangled curls fall over his forehead. When he hands across the bag their knuckles brush briefly and Enjolras wishes he could kiss Grantaire goodbye. But the man’s expression does not invite it.

“Well, goodbye then,” he says instead. “Thank you again.”

“It was nothing,” says Grantaire. He offers a lopsided smile, ever-so-slightly awkward. “I hope you find everything you’re looking for.”

“I can’t tell if you’re taking the piss,” Enjolras snorts, laughing as he scrambles from the boat onto the deck. “But thank you, anyhow. I hope you do too.”

 

Xxxxx

 

Grantaire leans out and watches him go, takes a wry drag on his cigarette with his other hand hanging onto to the starboard shroud. He watches, barefoot and unshaven with his hair all tangled by the sea breeze, as this rosy golden god of a boy turns his head briefly, chin tipped to throw him a scrap of sunshine in his parting grin. And _fuck_ , of course Grantaire can’t help but smile back: brief and ever so slightly sardonic, but a smile nonetheless. Enjolras could have stolen every dear possession on his boat, could have held it up with that same parting smile, and Grantaire would still have smiled back. He even manages a small wave and a faux-salute, cigarette between two crooked fingers as his mind flashes back to Enjolras, so intense and unsparing, saying _if I started I’d be ruined_. Oh god, he thinks, blinking as Enjolras’ flaxen hair is illuminated in the sunlight, every strand lit up like a fucking halo. _“And radiance shines around him, the gleaming of his feet…”_ The way he walks away is carefree - is _blithe_ \- destruction in his wake and good things ahead. Grantaire allows himself a moment of dramatic self-pity and thinks, grimly, _it is a privilege to have been destroyed by a boy like Enjolras_. By Enjolras, he means. There is no boy like him.

A moment of wallowing then (Grantaire’s speciality, if he does say so himself), and after that he sets about manoeuvring from the port into the open waters, gathering wind. A few minutes later and he’s speeding away on the water, salted air fresh in his face. He does not let himself look back again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Rays of light rise from about his brow and his cheek emits a smile mingled with wrath" - Philostratus the Elder, Imagines 2. 19 (describing Apollo)
> 
> "So it goes" - Karl Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse 5
> 
> “To argue with a man who has renounced the use and authority of reason, and whose philosophy consists in holding humanity in contempt, is like administering medicine to the dead, or endeavoring to convert an atheist by scripture.” - Thomas Paine, The American Crisis
> 
> "Phoebus, of you even the swan sings with clear voice to the beating of his wings, as he alights upon the bank by the eddying river Peneus; and of you the sweet-tongued minstrel, holding his high-pitched lyre, always sings both first and last. And so hail to you, lord! I seek your favour with my song." - Hesiod, Homeric Hymns, XXI. To Apollo
> 
> "...Apollon plays his lyre stepping high and featly  
> and radiance shines around him, the gleaming of his feet  
> and close-woven vest. And they, even gold-tressed Leto and wise Zeus,  
> rejoice in their great hearts as they watch their dear son  
> playing among the undying gods..." - from Homeric Hymn III to Pythian Apollo


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u to anyone who's reading so far!!<3

III

 

“ _So long world, you play too rough,_

_And it’s getting me all mixed up;_

_I lost my pride and it’s hiding there,_

_underneath the bottle”_

Lou Reed

 

Later, deep in the welcoming depths of a bottle of whiskey, he tells Éponine about these few days plucked from some luckier life. He waxes so earnestly poetic about Enjolras that she asks him, “R, do you not think you might’ve let him go too easily? Just because. Look, you know I’m no romantic, but I’ve never heard you talk like this about _anyone_ before. Not even David bloody Hockney.” She tilts her head, grins. “ _Maybe_ Andy Warhol on occasion.”

Grantaire snorts, picking quietly at a bit of fraying rope he’d found at the bottom of the boat and hopes isn’t anything important. “Maybe,” he says, then laughs at himself for daring to consider it. He’s bloody embarrassing, that’s what he is. “God, Eponine, what am I even saying? ‘Let him go’, like there was ever anything else on the cards. He’s so fucking out of my league.”

She ignores him. “Blah blah, whatever Grantaire. Spare me the pity party. The thing is, we’re going _right back by that island_ in a week and really, what’ve you got to lose?”

“My pride? My dignity?”

“…Both fell by the wayside many eons ago.”

“Oh, fuck you. Keep that up and I’ll let on to your aunt that I’m not your long-term _boyfriend with a view to marriage._ Maybe I’ll add that I saw you lovingly gazing at some baby socks the other day, or that you’ve started cutting out crib pictures from magazines.”

Eponine raises one dark, archly plucked eyebrow. “Yeah, and maybe I’ll fucking slaughter you in your sleep, how about that, _babe?”_ Her voice is monotone. He bursts out laughing, and slings an arm around her narrow shoulders to squeeze her into a hug.

“Missed you,” he tells her warmly.

“Missed you too,” she grunts out begrudgingly into his arm.

 

Xxxx

 

The week passes. Grantaire tries, and fails miserably, to get Enjolras out of his head. He tries to convince himself that he’s being delusional, and is mildly more successful. Éponine waggles her eyebrows at him every time she catches him mooning. He glares at her, and resumes trying in vain to forget Enjolras’s smile.

 

Xxxx

 

And that’s how he ends up standing in the village square on Kalokairi like an absolute fool, sticking a finger up to the laws of the universe which forbid people like him from entertaining such idiotic romantic notions as _fate,_ which keep his path in life suitably distanced from the likes of Enjolras, fenced off with self-doubt and self-preservation. Honestly though, Eponine’s right: he’s got nothing to lose, and he’s riding off the high of bidding any misplaced sense of pride blithely farewell as he attempts to explain his plight to an old woman scrubbing vegetables free of dirt by her market stall. She’s the third- or perhaps fourth- person he’s tried.

“I’m looking for-” He pauses, searching for the right words and sure that his lovelorn gaze must be giving him away. He must positively stink of yearning as he finishes lamely, “the boy with the hair?” and makes an aborted motion to his own riotous curls.

Sure enough, the woman gives him a simultaneously pitying and disdainful look, saying, “Yes, I know who you mean. The sunshine boy.” She rubs her hands clean perfunctorily on her apron, eyeing him with some suspicion and then relenting. “He is in the bar with his friends, I think.”

She points over to the place, as if they have more than one bar in the village, and Grantaire thanks her quickly, embarrassed and grateful, heart thrumming in his chest. God, but this is a stupid idea, probably the worst he’s ever had. It isn’t as though they’ve been forcibly parted; Enjolras had chosen to leave, and understandably! The gap between them is so extreme that Grantaire’s position is laughable. Almost certainly he’s making a terrible mistake, coming gracelessly after him like this, desiring more although he doesn’t deserve it. Not having the good manners to simply be grateful and let him go. Maybe he should just-

“Good luck,” says the lady pointedly, raising her eyebrows and tipping her chin in the direction of the bar.

“Going, going,” Grantaire assures her quickly, and starts to stride over before he can lose heart and run in the other direction. Sure, he doesn’t deserve any more of Enjolras’s time. And yet- _and yet!_ Letting him go without a fight seems a greater impossibility than pushing his clumsy way back into his company.

And so a tangle-haired, paint-splattered sailor walks into the bar like the start of an awful joke. It is both the bravest and most patently idiotic thing he’s ever done.

He can hear Apollo’s voice as soon as he enters; he can see the back of his golden head outside on the terrace. He has two friends sat with him, one walnut-skinned and serious-looking, one terribly sunburnt with clashing clothes and a loud, fidgety demeanour, waving a restless cigarette around and occasionally throwing himself back in his chair with laughter. They are all intently engaged in their conversation.

Heart in his throat, Grantaire pauses at the bar for some liquid courage. He has to repeat his request for a rum and coke twice, his voice too croaky to be understood the first time. Coughing to clear it, he is half-terrified and half-hopeful that Enjolras’ attention will be caught and he’ll turn round, but he doesn’t. He’s too caught up in his conversation.

Grantaire pays and inches up the bar towards the terrace door. Incidentally, this makes their conversation clearer, but he’s not- it’s not- Oh fuck it, he’s eavesdropping; sue him. He’s never claimed to be anything but a coward.

“That all sounds well and good, Enj,” the serious friend is saying, “as long as- well, do you think-"

The colourful-shirted friend interrupts, pitching himself forward with his chin on one hand. “What Ferre wants to know is, you haven’t just got out of one lovelorn mess into another, have you? Cause, dare I say, you sound rather _attached_ to this no-strings sailing fellow.” Grantaire can’t see, but he imagines him waggling his eyebrows, and then he directs his gaze firmly back to the bar and pretends to be breathing as he waits for Enjolras’s reply.

...which is a laugh. An incredulous, honest-to-god _laugh_ as he answers, “Fuck, no, he wasn’t my type at all! That’s why it was so perfect, see? He’s literally my opposite. The most cynical man I’ve ever met. Told me my politics were silly and my causes pointless. He was so absolutely wrong for me and _that_ is why he was absolutely right.” His voice is breathless, pleased; Grantaire can hear the excited gleam in his eyes as he stamps out Grantaire’s foolish flame of a heart. “I am the king of the one night stand,” Enjolras proclaims happily. The bartender hands over Grantaire’s drink and he takes it with a numb nod of thanks.

“You’re drunk,” Enjolras’s serious friend is telling him wryly, at the same time that Colourful Shirt demands,

“The sex was good, then?”

“God, it was fantastic, yeah.” Why is Grantaire still listening? Why hasn’t he left? He wants to disappear and yet he stands there frozen, lifting his drink to down it in one. “Although he actually wasn’t _physically_ my type either-“

“Tall, sleek and dressed for a televised debate?” reels off Colourful Shirt teasingly, as if this is a well-worn joke. Salt, meet wound, thinks Grantaire grimly.

And that’s his cue to leave. Actually, he’s long missed his cue. He’s embarrassed for himself and anyone else subjected to this awful tragicomedy. Tossing what’s meant to be a smile (but is more of a rictus grin) in the direction of the barkeeper, he spins around and strides out of the bar. Just keep walking and _don’t_ start crying, you stupid fool, he tells himself unsympathetically.

Outside the woman who’d given him directions throws him a questioning look.

“I’m an idiot,” he answers matter-of-factly, managing a self-deprecating smile.

“It’s always the way,” she tells him, and shakes her head.

 

Xxxx

 

Back on the boat Éponine is laid out on the deck, hidden behind huge sunglasses and a tattered copy of some crime thriller. She props herself up on her elbows when she sees him, and tips her sunglasses up a moment.

“Find him?” she questions cautiously.

Grantaire inclines his head with a grimace. “Let’s never speak of this episode again,” he says. Éponine nods, getting up to hoist the sails.

“My lips are sealed,” she assures him, and gives his arm a quick squeeze as she passes.

 

Xxxx

 

Éponine is as good as her word. They exchange only brief sentences about wind conditions and other vessels approaching on their way to the next island, and when they come into port she chain-smokes with him into the starry dark and doesn’t ask him why he’s put Lou Reed’s ‘Over You’ on three times in a row. A bottle of wine later into the night he tells her what happened unprompted and she demands rather drunkenly, “Who does that faux-liberal elitist fucker think he is? I bet he’s never even read _Das Kapital_.”

“A niche but fitting insult,” returns Grantaire approvingly, raising his chipped mug of wine to her in thanks.

For a moment there is silence, and then she adds, “Seriously, fuck him. You could be on television if you wanted to.”

“What, a really depressing episode of ‘ _This is Your Life’?_ ”

She shakes her head, props her elbows on her knees and glares at him intensely. “Grantaire, I mean it. I know you don’t think too highly of yourself but honestly. If you’re not his type then his type is obviously- just- _shit,_ yeah?”

Grantaire feels his stoically self-deprecating expression melt into fondness. That last mug of wine had definitely been a mistake, he thinks, as a wave of unwanted _feelings_ and _emotions_ crash over him and he tells her pathetically, _“_ Epo _nine.”_

She straightens up and punches his arm, hard, saving them both from embarrassment and certain death by emotional openness. “Don’t remind me of this in the morning,” she orders, and Grantaire nods, snorting.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says.

 

Xxxx

 

Meanwhile on Kalokairi, Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac spend the week staying up late drinking copious amounts of wine and chatting till the small hours, waking late and nursing their inevitable hangovers on Enjolras’s favourite hidden cove. It is new for them, taking a break, but it is lovely, and beautiful, and not a time any of them will forget soon.

One morning (well, afternoon, technically, but generosity with time is always good on holiday) they are laid in a row: Combeferre’s eyes closed serenely, Enjolras scribbling furious notes on the back page of Godwin’s _Enquiry Concerning Political Justice_ , and Courf’s face entirely covered by a ridiculous wide-brimmed straw hat. For a while the calm sound of the lapping sea is only disturbed by the scratching of Enjolras’s pencil and Courf’s contented snoring, and then on the wind comes the sound of someone singing. Courfeyrac awakens instantly, a 70s Sleeping Beauty, and pulls the hat down from where it was resting on his face so that his wide-eyed gaze is visible.

“Is this an angel that I hear before me?” he misquotes in a melodramatic whisper, ignoring Ferre’s pained groan of “ _so, so wrong”_ as he scrambles up to cry, “The dulcet undertones of Joe Strummer!”

“Joe Strummer does not have dulcet undertones,” Combeferre tells him dryly, eyes still closed, but sure enough the lyrics of ‘Lost in the Supermarket’ are floating towards them on the salty breeze. Enjolras - whose attention has thus far remained fixed on his hastily-pencilled anarchist spider diagram (is that an oxymoron?) - puts Godwin down for a second, lured like a sailor by a harpy to the sweet sounds of anti-capitalism.

When the harpy appears, scrambling down the white rocks with a string bag over one shoulder, he is dressed in a Hawaiian-print orange and pink shirt and a long, floaty brown skirt. His skin is tanned, face handsome and freckled, and a tangled golden plait hangs thick over one shoulder. Enjolras feels his breath catch in his throat.

“A vision!” cries Courfeyrac, leaping up to greet this angelic, punk-loving being.

“Hullo!” cries the vision in response, and hops over the remaining rocks with all the grace of a dancer. For a split second Enjolras is reminded of Grantaire: of his startling grace as he leapt barefoot about his boat. He wishes he could have seen Grantaire dance properly in one of his ballet performances. But that’s all in the past now, anyway. A lovely memory, he tells himself firmly, and the exciting, spontaneous present rolls on.

His name is Jehan Prouvaire, and he is an architect and an _activist poet_ and he’s read (and mentions unprompted!) Rousseau’s _Social Contract_. Enjolras trips over his words as he stumbles into the unfamiliar territory of capital-l Literature and tries desperately to think up an opinion on confessional poetry. He’s read _Ariel_ he offers, neglecting to mention that his mother had bought him a copy and demanded he read it. So what, he’s always privately thought the arts a bit of a waste of time? There’s nothing to say that Enjolras _couldn’t be_ artistically minded, if he wanted to, or that he can’t have an opinion on art. He certainly hadn’t felt this tongue-tied with Grantaire as they argued over the merits of public galleries, free art and elitism. But then, perhaps that was because he was never _invested_ in Grantaire.

“And what brings you to the island?” Courfeyrac is asking coyly, putting his hat on and adjusting it to a particularly coquettish angle. Combeferre looks unimpressed, Enjolras thinks, probably because he’s not a fan of the ridiculous straw hat, for which Courf had been swindled out of an eye-watering amount of drachma in the market.

“A last bit of freedom before I settle down to a humdrum life of architecture,” says Jehan with a winning smile. “And I’m editing a book of poetry that I’m hoping to publish at some point.”

Enjolras all but swoons. Jehan’s work, it turns out, centres mostly on identity and sexuality and acceptance, and Enjolras wonders if perhaps poetry isn’t so pointless after all. He promises to show Enjolras some and they chat excitedly about the equal rights campaigning they both did at university. Eventually Jehan invites them all to come and lunch at his rented villa. He’s been out collecting oranges, he says, and he’s going to make fresh orange juice and spanakopita. Enjolras’s mind spins. Jehan is so bloody impressive, so open and gentle and passionate and creative. And so Enjolras follows him onwards, up the sandy footpath he’d arrived on, wondering how his hair looks so soft and wishing he understood literature. He’s slightly worried he won’t be able to think up some appropriately thoughtful comment in response to Jehan showing him his writing. Because Jehan is _perfect,_ and he wants rather eagerly to impress him. His mind flashes to the Piaf lyrics Grantaire had played on the boat, to the line, “ _Alors je sens en moi mon coeur qui bat”._ It’s that feeling of being alive again, that feeling of nervous excitement. For a moment he sees the flickering image of Grantaire’s pink lips shaping the lyrics as he sings along, sees Grantaire’s sheepish grin as Enjolras shot him a scathing _look_ picking at his French. The endearing little duck of his head, a cheeky middle finger held up. And then he pushes the images away, decisively, and follows after Jehan.

 

Xxxx

 

“Why does this always happen?” asks Courf miserably, propping up an elbow on Combeferre’s shoulder as they watch Jehan and Enjolras walk off into the distance. “He’s so bloody attractive. I want him as my _husband_ and my _life partner;_ I want to adopt _babies_ and _multiple sausage dogs_ with him and have our first wedding waltz to ‘Career Opportunities’.”

“Right,” says Combeferre dryly. He pauses, stroking Courf’s curls a moment. “I’m not sure you can waltz to ‘Career Opportunities’,” he breaks to him gently, but Courfeyrac only scoffs.

“Oh, ye of little faith. If there’s anyone who could, it’s _him.”_

Another pause. “I would try, if you wanted me to,” says Combeferre quietly, and Courfeyrac beams up at him and throws an arm around his neck.

“Thanks pal, you’re the best. Let’s just forget boys and get platonic-married, yeah?”

Combeferre suppresses a sigh. “Yeah, alright,” he agrees.

 

Xxxx

 

Éponine finds Grantaire reading Nietzsche’s _Human, All Too Human_ on deck in the sparkling dawn sunshine and pulls it off him, pushing another one of her trashy crime novels into his hands instead. He glares and her, and she glares back, telling him in an acerbic monotone, “A starlet’s just died in mysterious circumstances, and her director’s disappeared. The jury says suicide, but her understudy’s got a motive and the boyfriend’s looking especially shady, cos apparently she and the director were having an affair. Enter: emotionally unavailable American detective. He doesn’t play by the rules, cos he’s been scarred in the past. Women are fundamentally untrustworthy. The author probably has some unresolved personal issues.” She sits down, throws her feet onto his lap and makes a waving hand gesture as if to say ‘ _you’re welcome; read on’_. He rolls his eyes and obliges.

Ten minutes later he’s scoffing and demanding, “God, ‘Ponine, how do you read this stuff? I was just subjected to the lines ‘Sarah looked critically at herself in the mirror, resenting the sumptuous curves she’d lived with all her life. Her breasts were simply too big to conceal in the modest dress she wished to wear _for the funeral_.” Here Grantaire’s raises his eyebrows pointedly, a silent exclamation mark, and continues in a tone of high drama, “‘But it was a lesser curse, she supposed, than that which the spinning wheel of Fate had inflicted on Isabella, whose career was in tatters and whose husband’s incarceration _prevented him enjoying her own creamy hourglass figure_ ’. Honestly; how did this shite get _published_?”

Éponine is unruffled. “Whereas this is much more enjoyable,” she counters sarcastically, and quotes from Grantaire’s stolen book: “‘ _Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man_.'” She pauses dramatically, then adds, “Cheerful.”

“It’s nihilism; it’s not supposed to be cheerful,” he scoffs. “Plus, it’s true.” She wrinkles her nose and then, after a significant pause, leans forward a bit to meet his gaze. He folds over his page (it’s gripping, alright?) and readies himself for some Serious Words, wondering if Éponine slept in those massive hoop earrings or put them on purposefully to look glamorous at 6am, in the middle of the ocean.

She says, “Remember when I was moping over Marius, crying all the time and reading Camus and smoking clove cigarettes, and you told me I was better than that and to fall in unrequited love with my own, angelically golden-haired, unquestionably out-of-reach romantic rival instead?”

Grantaire blinks at her. “Er...no?”

She waves his doubt away. “Something along those lines, anyway. And you told me, _you’re enough, and more than that you’re fucking brilliant, and if he can’t see that he’s not for you_.” She pauses pointedly. “Take your own advice.”

“Bit cheap of you to give me my own inspirational words back,” he says, to hide the fact that he feels soppy, and emotional, and all the things their friendship is not.

“It’s recycling,” she snipes back, sticking her tongue out. “Save the planet for your children.”

The sea laps insistently at the sides of their boat, and Éponine resumes her journey into the dark valley of Nietzsche. Grantaire stares at his own unopened book for a few moments, and then he says quietly, “Love you, Ponine.”

She doesn’t look up at him; in fact, her eyes fix all the more firmly to her page. And then she heaves a put upon sigh and allows, “Love you too, R.”

 

Xxxx

 

The thing is, he realises, he was probably somewhat of a novelty for Enjolras. Enjolras had probably found his coarseness momentarily interesting, because it wasn’t something you generally come across at Oxford. Maybe he got his kicks defying his own expectations by fucking some randomer who’d grown up on unbranded products and started smoking at thirteen. Grantaire was, he realises, just another Christophe-defying act of enforced spontaneity. He’d been hilariously naive to think anything else. People like Enjolras might find him intriguing, might have their interest snagged by having their arguments questioned in a way they hadn’t previously been. But in the end Enjolras will bring home a young man who can pronounce French words with ease, who owns a suit he didn't buy for a funeral and knows which wine goes with what and how on earth you’re supposed to eat an oyster. He will bring home someone who wears life easily, like a king who believes unconditionally in his right to the crown on his head. And this man will share Enjolras’s bright life and support his work and put a hand on the small of his back at civilised parties, and maybe Enjolras will look back and feel a fizzle of liberal excitement that he once slept with someone from the north. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> joe strummer was the lead singer of the clash
> 
> 'ariel' is ofc by sylvia plath 
> 
> 'this is your life' was a long-running british tv show where the host surprised a special guest, before taking them through their life with the assistance of the 'big red book'.
> 
> there's also a covert ref to the magnetic fields song 'I Don't Want to Get Over You' in this chap, obvs wouldn't have been around in the 70s but i just love the lyrics:
> 
> "Or I could make a career of being blue  
> I could dress in black and read Camus  
> Smoke clove cigarettes and drink vermouth  
> Like I was seventeen  
> That would be a scream  
> But I don't want to get over you"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to anyone who's reading so far!!! kudos and comments are appreciated to the moon and back <3 <3

 

 

 

IV

 

“ _Sometimes I feel so happy,_

_Sometimes I feel so sad;_

_Sometimes I feel so happy-_

_But mostly you just make me mad”_

The Velvet Underground, ‘Pale Blue Eyes’

 

Back in London, Enjolras gets a job in a left wing think tank and moves out of the Blackheath family home into a flat in Vauxhall shared with Courfeyrac and Combeferre. He settles into a routine: waking up late to the blaring sound of his alarm, splashing water on his face, filling a frantic flask of tea. He sips it on the bus to work, reading the paper or whatever report or pamphlet or non-fiction is most relevant at the moment. At work he takes on five times the workload of anyone else, skips lunch and clashes repeatedly with a superior called Eric, who likes their research done a certain very specific way and finds Enjolras’s wilfulness abhorrent. After work he gets the tube to volunteering or ABC meetings, daydreaming as he watches his reflection on the windows across from him, gazing after the occasional flash of light in the dark. 

It is not the lovely, perfect Jehan who has stuck in his mind. They had shared a few white-wine-fuelled kisses under the orange blossom, one night at the outside table when Courfeyrac and Combeferre had gone to bed. Enjolras had wanted his whirring, self-conscious thoughts to melt away like they had with Grantaire, but they hadn’t and he’d found himself thinking of the way Grantaire had cradled his jaw and thumbed the hollow behind his ear, like he was something precious to touch. After a few minutes he had drawn away in frustration and slight embarrassment:

“I’m sorry. I’m stuck in my head.” A hand through his hair. _It just doesn’t feel right like it did._

Jehan had been lovely, had answered easily. He understood, he said, and they chatted late into the night anyway.

Back in England, Enjolras berates himself for his foolishness in still thinking about Grantaire. He’d honestly thought when he’d left the boat that that was that, but now he finds himself daydreaming like the lovesick teenager he’d never been, entertaining fancies of bumping into Grantaire on the tube or in the supermarket. If he sits by the window on the early bus to work he gets distracted from his reading, catches himself subconsciously scanning through the faces in the street. He imagines the opening conversations they might have; how Enjolras might flawlessly segue into inviting Grantaire to step through from the rosy realms of holiday fling to- dinner, maybe? Enjolras has never really been on a proper date; he’s never seen the appeal. In the early stages of the courtship he and Christophe had jogged together, sometimes, or studied at the same table in the college library, or walked to get a pitta bread from the deli.

It’s ridiculous of course. Quite apart from anything else, he doesn’t know Grantaire. And what he does know is entirely contradictory to the sort of man he’d be wise to start- _whatever_ \- with. Grantaire is by his own account a negative, indolent cynic, unable to hold a meaningful conversation about anything without hiding behind other people’s quotes or caustic humour. He doesn’t ‘do’ politics, which, Enjolras tells himself sternly, is _surely inherently selfish,_ and certainly contrary to Enjolras’s entire belief system _._ None of his hobbies are activities that interest Enjolras in the slightest; in fact Enjolras has always seen hobbies as self-indulgent schemes for dodging real work and burying one’s head in the sand of frantic leisure. And anyway! Enjolras has only a few months ago got out of a relationship and he just doesn’t have _time_ for dating now; he’s busier than ever juggling his new job alongside ABC work.

Never mind the fact that his idiotic imagination has taken to wondering how Grantaire looks when dancing, what sort of music he sings on stage, what his art looks like. Never mind that one day he walks into Foyles and emerges unaccountably with a book of Greek myths (anyone can develop a sudden interest in classical literature, right?); never mind the fact that he somehow ends up accompanying his mother to a new Macmillan ballet at the Royal Opera House.

“What’s brought this on?” she asks him over pre-show tea, eyeing him over her cat-eye glasses in a way that has always left him slightly quaking. Enjolras didn’t get his strength of will from nowhere.

He downs the rest of his prosecco and tries for a light-hearted tone: “You always ask me to come. I just thought this time- why not.” And finally, in an underhand emotional blow. “We haven’t spent time together in a while.”

“And whose fault is that?” she rebuts mildly, ripping apart an innocent piece of bread between her fingers. “I remain unconvinced that you’ve ever thought ‘why not’ in your life, my dear, but we’ll let it go if you like.” He doesn’t breathe a sigh of relief, because she’s his mother and he knows her far too well. And sure enough she adds: “I hope there’s a nice cultured fellow on the horizon, that’s all.”

“God, no,” Enjolras scoffs, reddening. “You know how I feel about culture.”

“Exactly,” she says, “You need a better half, darling. Let me know when I can invite him along; I’ve got tickets for _La Traviata_ in the spring and I’m sure he’d appreciate it far more than you.”

 

Xxxx

 

Grantaire sniffs dubiously at a bottle of milk and wonders if four days past the sell-by date is too many.

“Just put it in, you wuss,” Éponine yells at him from her spot sitting on the counter. She’s busy filing her nails, which is probably not the most hygienic thing to do in a kitchen. Honestly, you can tell they both had shitty upbringings. “It’s not going to kill you.”

“I’ve developed a sudden passion for black tea,” he tells her wryly, replacing the milk in the fridge. “Unless you want ambiguous lumps in yours?”

She makes a dramatic retching noise. “Why are you putting it back in the fridge then?”

“It’s for Pechorin,” he defends himself.

“How many times do I have to tell you that cats are _lactose intolerant.”_

“Pretty sure that’s not lactose anymore.”

“ _No._ He needs to lose weight as it is, with all the snacks you keep feeding him.”

“He’s got persuasive eyes,” grouses Grantaire as he hands Eponine her cup of tea and takes a deep sip from his. “Fuck. Burnt my tongue.”

“Oh wow, I’d’ve never guessed boiling water might do that,” she intones sardonically.

“Maybe it’s Richard that keeps feeding him too much,” suggests Grantaire, ignoring her.

    “As if Richard’s been home in the last month.”

“No, dude, seriously though, I actually saw an empty Heinz tin in the sink yesterday and I didn’t put it there and _you_ hate soup, so he must have been in the building at some point.”

They both look dubiously over to the doorway. “D’you reckon he’s in his room right now?” hisses Eponine. “Shall we knock on his door to check he’s still alive?”

Grantaire laughs. “No, man, he’d hate that. You remember how freaked out he looked that one time we were all in the kitchen together and I asked him how his day had been?”

“He’s definitely a spy,” hums Eponine.

“How was your day, anyway?” he asks her, leaning up against the fridge and taking another, equally scalding sip of tea.

She shrugs. “Alright. The play’s still fucking amazing. Dominic’s still a fucking dick.”

Eponine - having graduated with a first in entirely sensible maths and accounting - is now working as a director’s assistant at the Royal Court. The move went unexplained but didn’t surprise Grantaire at all: she’s always been fascinated by theatre; she’s always loved how uncomfortably brutal it can be. And she’s been writing scripts for the last five years, only showing them to Grantaire when she’s feeling particularly brave. It’s not often, but he knows that they’re good, brilliant even, sharp-edged and acerbic with horrible truths. The director she’s working for currently is a nightmare - all neck scarfs and double-barrelled friends, forever demanding unpronounceable coffees - and she often says she’s going to quit for a better-paid accounting job. It’d be far more sensible, she says. She’s being naive at the moment, sowing her wild oats. At some point she’ll hang up her dreams and apply for a KPMG traineeship. (Grantaire will believe it when he sees it).

 

Xxxx

 

Enjolras cracks after three weeks at home, and finds himself at the phone when both Ferre and Courf are out, twisting the cord in his fingers as he tries and fails to talk himself out of the ludicrous idea.

“Helloo,” he says down the phone line, well aware that he sounds far too cheery for his usual self and consequently slightly unhinged. “How are you doing today, Bossuet?” He shifts foot. “How’s the Met training going?”

Bossuet actually laughs. “What do you want, Enjolras?” he cuts through, still laughing, and Enjolras huffs, conscience a little stung.

“Can’t I just be interested in your day to day life?” he demands.

Bossuet snorts. “Unless I’ve woken up today as UK politics, I doubt it.” And- oh. That’s rather damning, thinks Enjolras, all the more so because of the horrible ring of truth it has. He can’t remember quite when he last rang one of his friends (Courfeyrac and Combeferre excepted) just for a chat, no activism mentioned, although he must have done it at some point, _surely?_ He’s in the middle of vowing silently to change that when Bossuet interrupts his little guilt spiral, sounding more amused than hurt.

“Look,” he says gently. “We all know you care about us. It’s just- you don’t usually ring for small talk, do you? So tell me what you’ve rang me for, and then I’ll tell you about the Met training. Which is actually going surprisingly well this time.”

“Oh. Glad to hear it.” Enjolras pauses. “I do care about you an awful lot, alright?”

“Message received,” says Bossuet, then adds, “Now stop being worryingly soppy or I’ll think you’ve just been delivered a terminal diagnosis. What niche political research can I do for you today?”

Enjolras is ashamed to admit that his mind does toy with the idea of presenting his question as somehow connected to their activism, but in the end he forces himself to say, “It’s not exactly- well, it’s actually more of a personal question.” He’s blushing. Fuck his life, honestly.

An intrigued pause. “Oh?”

He takes a breath. “Um. Well. You know with your bouncer job. I was just wondering if you’ve ever heard of the band the Pastel Statics?”

Another pause. Then Bossuet says in a measured tone, “Am I allowed to ask why?”

“Um…” says Enjolras. “Please don’t?”

And bless sweet Bossuet, because he just replies, “Okay then. Well in that case, you’re in luck; I do actually know their drummer a little bit. They were at our club maybe- two weeks ago? But they do regular gigs at the Crosskeys in Shoreditch. Friday nights I think they are, usually, with a few other local bands.”

“Bossuet, I fucking _love you,”_ rushes out Enjolras before he can help himself, nerves and excitement sparking in his veins.

“Alright, that’s it,” says Bossuet, “how long have you got to live?”

 

Xxxx

 

Breaking from routine, then, Enjolras doesn’t sign up for his usual Friday soup kitchen shift. Instead he stays at work until everyone’s gone and all the lights are off around him, fretfully vacillating between staying and going. He leaves it till it’s almost too late and then mumbles _fuck it_ and downs the last of the cold coffee in his mug. Slinging his bag over his shoulder he legs it down the six flights of stairs of the office building and soon finds himself on the tube, feeling intensely jittery and vowing to never again stress-drink five cups of coffee in an afternoon. Grantaire’s band might not be playing, of course. He might have missed them, and he’s not sure if he would be disappointed or relieved. He’s almost got off the tube and turned back home three times already, but he forces himself to stay on till Old Street and only then alight, heart thrumming, to wander the area looking for the Crosskeys.

Twenty minutes later he’s almost given up when he turns a corner and comes across a noisy, well-lit pub, steam and laughter leaking from cracked-open, dirt-smudged windows and a gaggle of patrons spilling out into the streets. There are posters advertising various gigs plastered and pinned on the wall and he sees a few for the Pastel Statics, lilac and orange with psychedelic-style writing picked out on the no-transmission screen of a TV. Enjolras moves closer, wondering whether Grantaire designed it himself. It smells of beer and sweat and cigarette smoke, and Enjolras feels tight-strung and out of place. Muffled music blares from inside. He steels his resolve, wrapping his jacket around himself and squeezing through the chatting crowds in the doorway to sneak in at the back of the pub just as a wave of applause starts, and he gets knocked back into the wall by a whooping man who almost accidentally hits him over the head with an enthusiastic arm swing. It is times like these that Enjolras wishes he were a few inches taller, struggling to see over people’s shoulders to the makeshift stage at the front, shuffling and squeezing this way and that before he stumbles across a fortuitous gap between two girls’ shoulders and- _oh god._ Oh fuck. Suddenly he can see Grantaire.

He’s wearing a midnight-purple shirt in a silky material that clings to his skin, half-unbuttoned with a glimpse of sharp collarbone and the sleeves pushed up too. Enjolras feels his breath catch and he swallows, hard, moving back against the black-painted wall as he takes in Grantaire’s dark curls, messy and falling over his forehead, the way his eyes are gleaming and smudged with- is that _eyeliner?_ Grantaire looks like sex, that’s all there is to it, he looks utterly and decadently _indecent_ as his hands wrap around the microphone and he laughs with the crowd a little, voice cigarette-rough as he introduces their last song. It’s some sultry glam-rock cover that Enjolras obviously doesn’t recognise: Lou Reed or David Bowie or Marc Bolan, someone of the sort. Enjolras doesn’t know, doesn’t care; he was too busy staring to hear what Grantaire said. It starts slow, anyway, and then crescendoes, Grantaire’s clever fingers wringing faster and faster notes from his guitar. His singing voice is coaxing and provocative. It sounds like danger; the sort of rollercoaster-risk you want to take just for the thrill of it. Enjolras stares, and feels his heart beating so hard that it hurts.

The set finishes to riotous applause. Enjolras is shoved to one side by a sweat-smelling guy in striped sequins and has beer spilled on him by a jumping girl in an orange neck-tie. Grantaire is saying thank you; he’s so glad people made it. He hopes they enjoyed it. They appreciate the support. The girl beside him whoops, claps, and spills more beer on Enjolras’ shoes.

 

Xxxx

 

He is out on the street before he can stop himself, before he can gather up the courage to make himself stay. He’s so absolutely fucked, he thinks, looking down at his neat little jumper and corduroy jacket, his godforsaken brogues. What is he doing here? Grantaire has probably forgotten him; Grantaire, whom Enjolras had lectured about _living_ when he has never seen anyone so electrically, so vividly and unapologetically alive. For Grantaire, their time together probably hadn’t been all that memorable. For him it was probably the night of meaningless fun that Enjolras had meant it to be. In the dark outside the pub he pauses, leaning back a little against the grimy brick wall and forcing himself to breathe slowly, until his pounding heart seems a little less likely to burst out of his chest. He has to try, he tells himself, remembering how utterly, exhilaratingly _himself_ he had felt in Grantaire’s company, remembering Grantaire’s wicked laugh and the way their conversation had fit together like opposing magnets. Their time at sea had _not_ been meaningless, by anyone’s standards. He won’t allow his doubting brain to tell him that.

A deep breath, then, and he turns to go back into the pub- and freezes, coming immediately up against Grantaire.

Grantaire stares at him with a bitten-off ‘ _Fuck’_ that can’t be a good sign, lit cigarette raised halfway to his lips. “Apollo?” he questions in bewilderment, although he obviously already knows it’s him, and his voice is hoarse from singing.

Up close his appearance is even more devastating, a dark leather bomber shrugged on over his shirt, eyeliner smudgy around his bright eyes. In the gentle sunlight of the boat’s cabin Enjolras had thought them soft and velvety, but here in the manmade streetlights they seem polished brown sea-glass, opaque and unrelenting. His curls are wild, tangled by dancing, lips bitten red and flush of exertion still evident on his stubbled cheeks. He says, “Fucking hell, Apollo, what are you doing here?”

He is not smiling, and this is not the reception Enjolras had envisaged. He had planned to be honest and brave but his courage deserts him, and he replies stupidly, “I was passing and I- saw your poster. So I thought I’d come and see you again, because I, well, we had fun, and I’m living spontaneously.” He tries for a smile. “I wanted to see you, so I came.”

“Because you’re being spontaneous?” Grantaire questions quietly, finally taking a drag from his cigarette, and sliding his other hand into his jacket pocket. Enjolras feels a painful ache of yearning, realising abruptly that this is all going to absolute shit, and not having the first idea how to rescue it. Grantaire doesn’t want him again, that much is evident. Grantaire had not hoped - had not expected - to see him again, and now that he’s here the surprise is an unpleasant one, for whatever reason. Probably Grantaire resents the awkward situation Enjolras has dragged them both into, an unnecessary act of masochism on Enjolras’s part. Enjolras wants to cry, wants to disappear completely, but he answers in a cracked voice,

“Yes.”

“You wanted a repeat, because it was fun and the sex was good,” says Grantaire tonelessly, and this time it’s not even a question.

Enjolras thinks, _no. I wanted a repeat because I was stupid to let you go, because you make me feel alive. I wanted a repeat_ ad infinitum, _because you’re fucking addictive, and I can’t stop thinking about you, and I think that maybe I could grow to love you._ But if he’s going to be rejected humiliatingly, he supposes it’s better that Grantaire doesn’t know the pathetic full of it. And so, “I- guess, yeah?” he says, with a forced laugh, shifting a little in his stupid brogues.

For a moment Grantaire is silent, stare all-consuming and lips slightly parted. Then he smiles, a small and mechanical smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He drags a hand through his messy curls. “Enjolras I- can’t,” he says, and although Enjolras had been expecting it, it still hurts like hell to hear. “I’m sorry; it’s just-”

“That’s alright,” Enjolras interrupts wildly, desperate to cut short this excruciating conversation. “I mean, of course, that’s fine.” He smiles slightly manically. “It was nice to see you, anyhow, but I’d better-”

His rambling is interrupted by a woman’s voice saying, “Taire! Here you are.” It’s the band’s drummer and Grantaire’s best friend, Eponine, petite and fierce-looking with long, messy dark hair and sooty-lashed eyes, a massive leopard-print coat draped over her black leotard and mini-skirt, torn fishnets and black biker boots. She comes to stand next to Grantaire, arms wrapped around herself in the cold, and levels a questioning glance at Enjolras. “Who’s this?”

Grantaire swallows. “This is. Ah. Enjolras.”

Enjolras watches in confusion as Eponine’s eyes narrow, and she gives him a cold, curt nod. “Nice to meet you,” he tries, and she tells him acerbically,

“Likewise,” in a tone that leaves no doubt she means the opposite. And then she insinuates herself under Grantaire’s arm, fitting perfectly, like she belongs there, and slips a slim arm round his waist, reaching up to kiss his cheek. Enjolras goes cold. “Babe,” she says, voice fond and gentle. “Come back inside; it’s freezing out here.”

“Alright, yeah,” says Grantaire. He snaps himself out of his stupor and his face gives nothing away as he throws down his cigarette and stamps it out with his foot. Enjolras doesn’t say anything, for fear he might burst into tears, but Eponine smiles sweetly at him from her cosy and beautiful place in the circle of Grantaire’s arms, and says,

“Goodnight, Enjolras.”

It’s an order, rather than a pleasantry. Enjolras nods, forces out a, “Night,” and turns away quickly, restraining himself from a last desperate glance at Grantaire. It wouldn’t help. His heart’s been shattered. He’s a fucking fool, he thinks, as he strides off in a random direction, angrily dashing a tear away. He feels tiny, unloveable and shit.

And _god,_ he’s been so stupid; he’s been so naive. Oh god, Eponine’s things had been in the boat! _Co-sailor, my arse._ Evidently Grantaire’s night of fun had been far more reckless than Enjolras’s, because his fucking _girlfriend_ had been waiting on the shore for him like some sort of 18th century sailor’s wife, while he fucked Enjolras in their sunlit cabin and fucking quoted- _Thomas Paine_ at him, while he pressed kisses into Enjolras's neck and played him _Pale Blue Eyes_ (the fucking irony!) and promised him _anything_ and fed him fucking _grapes!_ But at this point Enjolras’s line of thinking has become so enraged and ridiculous that he really has no choice but to sit down on a bench and cry, shoulders shaking in the dark, wishing that he could hate Grantaire, and that he wasn’t still aching for his arms around him.

 

Xxxx

 

“Why am I such a fucking _idiot?”_ demands Grantaire slurringly, four bars down the line with beer number who-gives-a-shit in one hand. He and Eponine are standing up against a suspiciously sticky wall as music blares around them, but even in the din Grantaire can hear Eponine’s exaggerated sigh of exasperation as she downs the rest of her gin and tonic and tells him,

“For the last time, R, you’re not idiotic. Well, you are sometimes, but tonight was actually a solid, taking-good-care-of-yourself decision.”

“Eponine," says Grantaire, taking hold of one of her shoulders because _she doesn't grasp the monumental idiocy that has taken place tonight._ “The actual love of my life found me again and fucking _propositioned me_ and I said _no thanks!_ Am I insane? What on this godforsaken planet was I thinking?” 

She remains unimpressed. “Uh, maybe of the way you heard him bitching about you?”

“Okay, steady on; he wasn’t _bitching;_ he was just being honest about how fundamentally unattractive and- unsuited to him I am.” He swallows. “Which is true. Which is- which just makes tonight even more of a fucking fluke that I should not have- said _no thanks_ to!”

“You’re not unattractive,” she grates out, looking like she’s hating every second. “You deserve someone who’ll see how fucking brilliant you are, alright? Not someone whose desire for you you have to think of as a one-off fluke.”

Grantaire melts a little at her words. “Awh, Ep-” he starts, half-teasing, half-touched, but she rolls her eyes and interrupts,

“Shut up; I hate you. But my point stands.”

“But I-” he starts automatically, then adds quieter, “I’ve never felt for anyone else like I did- like I still do about him.”

“Even more reason to stay away,” says Eponine, voice sharp. “God, R, it’s like- if Marius was like, oh Eponine let’s spend the night together but I’ll still never love you and you’ll always know that! What would you say to me, honestly?” Grantaire just scowls, backed into a corner by horrible, no-good Reason. “It’s called self-preservation,” she sighs.

Grantaire’s bruised heart is not, however, in the mood for listening to reason. He shakes his head, downs his drink, and returns, “Fuck self-preser- self-preservation. What absolute bullshit. What am I preserving myself for, exactly, when he’s wandering round the world without me?”

“Um, your own life?” tries Eponine, and Grantaire combats miserably,

“But everywhere’s dark where he isn’t, Ponine.”

She narrows her eyes. “That’s a quote, isn’t it, you melodramatic arse.”

“No, no it’s-” Grantaire shrugs, tipping himself so he’s leaning on Eponine’s shoulder and mumbling thoughtfully, “Well, I suppose maybe it’s a bastardisation of Tennyson.”

“We’ve reached Tennyson depths now? Oh dear god,” groans Eponine, and when he just blinks she takes his hand roughly and says, “Okay, this is too tragic; we’re going to dance. C’mon buddy.” She grins at him, teasing. “Half a league onward, Grantaire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grantaire's 'bastardisation of tennyson' is from 'in memoriam', an incredibly heartbreaking and extremely long poem tennyson wrote in memory of his 'close friend' (eyebrow waggle) arthur hallam after he died when they were both in their early 20s:
> 
> VII
> 
> Dark house, by which once more I stand  
> Here in the long unlovely street,  
> Doors, where my heart was used to beat  
> So quickly, waiting for a hand,
> 
> A hand that can be clasp'd no more—  
> Behold me, for I cannot sleep,  
> And like a guilty thing I creep  
> At earliest morning to the door.
> 
> He is not here; but far away  
> The noise of life begins again,  
> And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain  
> On the bald street breaks the blank day.
> 
> VIII  
> A happy lover who has come  
> To look on her that loves him well,  
> Who 'lights and rings the gateway bell,  
> And learns her gone and far from home; 
> 
> He saddens, all the magic light  
> Dies off at once from bower and hall,  
> And all the place is dark, and all  
> The chambers emptied of delight: 
> 
> So find I every pleasant spot  
> In which we two were wont to meet,  
> The field, the chamber, and the street,  
> For all is dark where thou art not.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and curtains up on chapter 5! i LOVE reading comments so please let me know what you think <3

V

 

“ _Mamma mia, here I go again_

_My my, how can I resist you?_

_Mamma mia, does it show again_

_My my, just how much I’ve missed you?”_

ABBA

 

Life goes on for three weeks or so (nineteen days precisely, if you’re asking Grantaire’s Apollo-obsessed brain). Grantaire goes to work in the Café Musain, and he dutifully does his bar shifts, and he’s worryingly productive: suddenly he feels like painting _all the time,_ and more often than not he finds himself centring his works round yellows and golds and reds, fierce and overwhelming sunshine colours. He finds himself sketching the corner of dazzling smiles, the delicate lines of a certain wrist. He kicks himself daily: he cannot believe that by some astonishing, fantastic twist of fate Enjolras had _found him again,_ in London; he cannot believe that he’d said anything but _yes, god yes._ He imagines what would have happened if he had. It would have been worth it, undoubtedly, even though he’s equally sure that Enjolras would have had him leave before sunrise. He can picture it: Enjolras, sated with the sheets held to his chest, smiling sleepily and telling him _thanks_ as he slinks off into the dark, use concluded. Perhaps they would have exchanged numbers. Perhaps Enjolras might have liked to use him _multiple times,_ casual and untroubled while Grantaire ate himself up with adoration.

As time passes he starts to reluctantly see that - from an objective perspective at least - he had made the right decision. Sleeping casually with Enjolras would have been like sticking a heroin needle into his arm: an act of euphoric and sublime self-destruction. He’s been doing well, lately, has been taking care of himself and going to sleep before three, eating vegetables and not mentally eviscerating himself with self-loathing every few seconds. It would have been brazen self-sabotage to jump into bed with someone he revered so hopelessly. Someone so righteous and perfect and beautiful, someone who had dubbed him ‘absolutely wrong’ and _laughed._

 

Xxxx

 

On every day but Friday he works with Cosette in the Musain, a cafe filled with harried, self-entitled commuters, stressed and artsy students and polo-neck-clad writerly types. Cosette is a student herself: after doing maths and accounting with Eponine at Queen Mary’s, she had gone onto a maths masters like the academic star she is. She, Grantaire and Eponine had briefly been flatmates in third year. It had not been a good time, what with Marius coming in and out and Eponine having to force smiles and listen to their happy flirting while she and Grantaire did work in his room. He remembers the one and only time she burst out crying about it: on her birthday, when everyone had gone to bed and they could hear Cosette and Marius through the thin wall, muffling giggles and teasing each other. She had crumpled and cried silently, as she always did, covering her face with her fingers. He just put an arm round her and held her very tight. They never talked about it afterwards.

He’s never been sure whether Cosette ever realised what was going on. She’d never mentioned it, if she did. After finals she’d moved in with Marius (thank god) and he and Eponine had found the lovely Richard to split rent costs with. They still all see each other regularly.

 

Xxxx

 

“R,” says Cosette winningly, appearing like an apron-clad golden angel in the doorway of the backroom. Like a golden angel who _wants something._ Grantaire knows that face. She continues, gesturing at the stack of baking trays he’s currently drying. “Want me to finish that off so you can go home?”

He pauses. Narrows his eyes as she rolls up the sleeves of her blush-pink cardigan. “The answer is probably no,” he says.

“The answer to what?” Her blue gaze widens innocently, and honestly if Grantaire hadn’t known her for all these years he would be reeled all the way in by now. As it is he flicks the damp tea-towel in her direction and grunts out,

“Tell me what it is you want, Cosette.”

She folds her arms, still leaning on the doorway, and wrinkles her angelic button nose rather sulkily. “You’re no fun.”

    “You need to learn different persuasive tactics.” He grins. “Seems like you’re getting rusty, ay?”

She huffs and strides in, coming to help him dry anyway. Giving a cake tin a business-like once-over, she tells him, “I think you might enjoy this, you know.”

“By which you mean I’d hate it but I’m going to do it out of obligation to you anyhow,” he translates dryly.

She giggles. “No! It’s an art favour.”

“It’s not a nude of Marius is it?”

“No it’s not- _what?”_ She flushes, laughs again. “ _No._ It’s for this social activism group I’m in.” Grantaire rolls his eyes and she ignores him, pointedly. “The work we do is actually pretty good, you know. And it’s even more important now than ever. The cuts they’re trying to push through are insane.”

“I’m suitably outraged,” says Grantaire, deadpan. “But I still don’t understand what you want out of me.”

“Well,” she begins, wheedling tone decidedly back in action, “We’re doing a big rally in October against the welfare cuts, and we need an artist to design our posters and banners.” She puts down the tray she’d been drying, and places her hands on her hips. “What do you think?”

He groans. “I don’t know, Cosette. I’m pretty snowed under at the moment-”

“ _Please,_ Grantaire. I’ve seen your posters for the Pastels; they’re brilliant. And it would really make a difference to us. Enjolras has been going on about how Les Amis needs more of a visual presence in the city and-”

“Wait, sorry- _who?”_ The world has frozen. The world has fucking frozen and Grantaire has been stuck with a dishcloth in his hand, only narrowly avoiding dropping a tin on his foot as his heart takes a dramatic pause. His whole body is suffused with something that feels at once icy and hot, sickly-panicked with a wave of feverish anticipation.

She pauses, glances at him curiously. “Enjolras,” she repeats, and tilts her head. “Do you know him?”

“No,” he says, far too fast. He’s being transparent and he knows it, face pale and mouth dry.

“Will you do the posters?” she asks him. He’s grateful that she’s leaving it. Maybe it’s a different Enjolras, he tells himself, a different ‘Les Amis’. But who’s he fucking kidding? The name’s too absurdly uncommon, and this is just the sort of cruel joke fate loves to pay on him. He swallows, takes a deep breath and picks up another tray to dry. His hands are just the tiniest bit shaky.

“I’ll think about it,” he says.

 

Xxxx

 

Eponine walks in to the sorry sight of Grantaire painting rather frantically, shirt splattered with various clashing colours and surrounded by so many tubs and vases of flowers that she can hardly see his easel. He pokes his curly head out of the carnage to wave at her and say, “Hello, don’t say anything; nothing at all to do with my absolutely tragic love life-”

Eponine laughs and moves a pile of canvases off their sofa to sit down. “Heliotrope, sunflowers, hyacinths,” she says, pointing out each one. “You forget that we share a classics obsession, R.”

Grantaire’s paintbrush doesn’t pause. “Alright, well. In that case. I’m doing a little _stay-away-from-your-imminent-doom_ art.” He pulls a face, space between his eyebrows crinkling as he dips in close to put in some detail or other. “Because- ah. It turns out Cosette knows him. Enjolras, I mean. Of course.” A bit of a manic laugh. “As if it would ever be anyone else.”

He pauses his painting at last, leaning back on his stool to look at her over the mounds of foreboding flowers. She’s looking impressively unshaken, straight-lipped as she says, “How on earth does _Cosette_ know him?”

“Apparently she’s in his little social-justice-tastic activist group. I mean, I knew she was in _an_ activist group. Did not clock it was fucking Apollo’s.”

She hums.

“They want me to do posters,” adds Grantaire grimly.

“Shit,” agrees Eponine, getting up to come round and peer over his shoulder at his painting. “Is that Clytie?”

“Yep, 10 points for the classics nerd. Here she is rejected by Apollo and about to be turned into a heliotrope.”

Eponine laughs. “This is one of the most ridiculous coping mechanisms I’ve ever seen,” she tells him fondly, and pats him on the head. “I think you may have gone a little insane, but to be fair the painting’s looking good. Are you going to do yourself as Hyacinth getting his head frisbee-d off trying to impress Enjolras?”

Grantaire sighs; tips himself back like a cat into Eponine’s hand as she pets her fingers through his curls. “Probably,” he agrees, looking up at her rather pathetically. “I think I’m going to go to one of their meetings, Ep.”

“I think you are, too.”

“Shit. Can you talk me out of it?”

She grimaces, stroking back the hair from his forehead. “I don’t think so. I already feel bad for being too overbearing last time. You gotta do you, I guess, and see what happens.”

“You weren’t overbearing, silly. But. Yeah, I think you’re probably right.” He huffs out a sigh, straightens up and starts to clean off his brushes. “My heart apparently hates me and my self-care attempts. I can’t not see him _._ I know that I shouldn’t but- _fuck._ I’m going to.”

 

Xxxx

 

As it turns out, Grantaire doesn’t have to go to the meeting. As it turns out, the meeting comes to him. Apparently Les Amis have been kicked out of their usual meeting space due to disputes over the hire cost (apparently the UCL Conservative drinking club will pay more for the room). And so Cosette offers them the use of the Musain after closing hours, and Grantaire (god help him) _stays._

The first person to arrive is a man Grantaire recognises from Kalokairi, from that humiliating moment in the bar which he’s resigned to forever recall. The man is no longer so tragically sunburnt but he’s sporting an outfit that makes his identity as Colourful Shirt Friend unmistakeable: a bright violet boucle cardigan and a vividly embroidered shirt under his coat, all paired with corduroys and some leopard print loafers. He obviously subscribes to that age-old fashion maxim ‘more is more’, thinks Grantaire dryly, and this apparently applies to his day-to-day behaviour as well because as soon as he spots Grantaire he throws his arms around him and cries, “And you must be our artistic saviour! I can’t even _begin_ to express how grateful we all are.”

“Uh,” says Grantaire, who really isn’t a hugging sort of person and feels currently about as comfortable as a fish attempting a tap dance. “Um, happy to meet you.”

Colourful Shirt pulls back with a blinding flash of a smile, throwing his hands up in a dramatic ‘mea culpa’. “God, I’m sorry; completely failed to introduce myself. I’m Courfeyrac. You can call me Courf, of course. You’re Grantaire, right?”

“Uh, yes?” manages Grantaire, sounding ridiculously unsure next to the confidence of Courfeyrac. Fucking hell, how does one even manage to make the affirmation of one’s _own bloody name_ sound like a question? “Yes,” he forces himself to say again, this time firmer.

Courfeyrac pulls off his beret, coat, scarf and messenger bag and flings them over a chair, talking ten to the dozen even as he does do. Grantaire fails miserably to keep up, catching only the vague impression that Courfeyrac is a student, somewhere, in some subject (he thinks perhaps law?), and also works some sort of admin job, also somewhere, and has had a day full of events that all sound extraordinarily chaotic. When Cosette appears though he breaks off abruptly to hug her too, beaming, and ask about _her_ day. Grantaire stares at them both, feeling rather small and shadowy next to two such radiant balls of bubbly positivity.

The next person to arrive is a far more calming presence: the other man Grantaire had seen in the bar. He introduces himself to Grantaire as Combeferre, shaking his hand firmly but respectfully and moving to take a seat next to Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac, who’d thus far been half-leaning on a chair jittering excitedly, finally sinks into an actual sitting position and shoots an affectionate, welcoming little grin in Combeferre’s direction. The man looks tired, eyes heavy behind his tortoiseshell glasses, and so Grantaire offers to make him a tea.

“I- that would be lovely actually,” he answers, looking momentarily surprised. He rubs beneath his eyes. “Thank you, Grantaire.”

     The fact that he remembered his name takes Grantaire aback. “Anyone else?” he says, trying his best to cover up his flusteredness.

“Please,” says Cosette, and Courfeyrac chips in with,

“ _Ooh,_ that would be nothing less than _terrific,_ thank you.”

Grantaire escapes relievedly to the kitchen, where he busies himself boiling the kettle and tries not to freak out at the fact that _Enjolras could arrive at any minute._ His heart is racing already, just thinking about it. He feels nervous and fidgety, fumbling clumsily at the teabags as he hears the cafe door chime open again. But none of the new voices are the sharp, animated one Grantaire is listening for. None of them command absolute attention the way Enjolras does. When he finally takes a deep breath and emerges, gripping cups of tea, he finds a muscled bald chap and a young man in a scarf chatting with Cosette, a fresh-faced guy laughing at something Courfeyrac said and a floppy-haired, endearing little fellow fumbling around in his bag for something or other. Another woman has arrived as well, petite with a smooth, dark ponytail and a smart woollen coat.

“Musichetta,” she introduces herself with a small, contained smile, and points at the bald man still absorbed in conversation. “That’s Bossuet, Feuilly, Bahorel, and that’s Joly.” She motions to the boy still rummaging in his bag. “He’s lost his inhaler.” Grantaire must look concerned at that because she shakes her head with a tiny snort and adds, “Don’t worry, he hasn’t got asthma. He just likes to take every precaution available.”

Just at that moment Joly locates the inhaler and leaps to his feet, beaming as he thrusts his hand out for Grantaire to shake. “Delighted to meet you; I’m Joly!” he rambles. “Thank you so much for having us, honestly. It’s such a relief to have found somewhere else we can meet like this. And it’s absolutely wonderful to have a new face in the group, really.”

“I- thanks,” says Grantaire, wondering when he can break it to them that he’s no intention of remaining in Les Amis after swiftly making the posters and catching a glimpse of Enjolras. They’re all so _impassioned_ and full of hope; it’s not exactly Grantaire’s scene. He wishes abruptly that Eponine was here and looks over in a mute appeal to Cosette, the only person who knows him and how absolutely unsuited to this context he is. But at that moment Bossuet catches sight of him and exclaims,

“Hey, aren’t you in the Pastel Statics? I’m a bouncer; I’ve seen you guys play a couple of times.” He pauses, and Grantaire watches as a strange series of expressions flickers across his face. Eventually he beams with a little shake of his head, and holds his hand out in introduction. “You’re really good,” he tells him wryly, as Grantaire shakes it. “Bossuet; nice to meet you.”

“Thanks, mate,” says Grantaire, fighting a bit of a blush. “I’m Grantaire; it’s nice to meet you too." 

 

Xxxx

 

He ends up sitting next to Feuilly, who offers him what seems to be a genuinely pleasant (if a little awkward) smile and says, “St Martins, right? I was in the year above you.”

Grantaire feels a sudden stab of panic that he’s forgotten this man, that he’s somehow someone whom he ought to have remembered. “Um,” he begins nervously, but Feuilly puts him back at ease by laughing,

“Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to remember me. We never met, but I saw your works in an exhibition there. I still remember them; they were fantastic -Studies in Human Nature?”

Grantaire’s chest fills with a strange sort of warmth. It is beyond belief that this kindly stranger has seen his works _two years ago or more_ and still remembers them well enough to know their title. The fact that his paintings might have an impact like that takes Grantaire aback; he says, “Yes, wow. I hardly remember that one myself. It’s nice to be reminded of it.”

“It was truly excellent. I’d never seen anything like it.”

“I- thank you. What sort of work do you do, then?”

“I work with fabrics. Well, I’m a milliner. I make hats, fascinators, all sorts of things.” His eyes have lit up as he talks of his craft, limbs loosening a little from their tight self-consciousness. “At St Martins I used to do textile collages, fabric sculptures and stuff like that- but there’s something I love about seeing someone actually wearing what you’ve made. Seeing it- become a part of them, almost, temporarily. Sorry. I don’t mean to blather on about hats.”

“No, it’s fine,” says Grantaire. He feels far more at ease than he has at any point in the last few hours. For a few split seconds he forgets to be terrified of Enjolras’s impending arrival and asks, “How come you’re not doing these posters, then? I’m sure you’re far more capable than I am.” He laughs, self-deprecatingly. His modesty is not false in the slightest.

Feuilly’s gaze dips down into his cup of tea as he tells Grantaire, “I couldn’t. This group- I love it, madly, but it takes up all the spare time I have already. It’s nigh on impossible to say no to Enjolras. But I’m trying to set up my own business; a little shop with all my designs. And I care for my grandmother; she lives with me. She’s not all well, these days.” He laughs, flushing, tugging at a lock of his hair. “Again, I don’t know why I’m telling you my life story. I am sorry.”

Grantaire brushes him off, shooting him a confiding grin. “Don’t worry. I have one of those listening faces, I’m told. Yesterday on the tube a woman told me all about her thwarted operatic career.”

Feuilly giggles. Grantaire feels a wave of gratitude towards him. The gnawing sensation in his chest of being obviously, humiliatingly out of place has faded a bit. The panic settles down, leaving only his day-to-day sense of inadequacy. That, of course, he has learned to live with.

 

Xxxx

 

It’s two minutes past nine when Enjolras throws the door open and sweeps in with all the force of a hurricane, large notepad in one hand and the other working to undo his tie. “Sorry I’m late, everyone, the meeting with Councillor Enfield overran- and was utterly fucking _terrible,_ he wasn’t listening to a word I was saying and he couldn’t understand why _selling social housing_ might not be such a brilliant idea in however many years when all these properties have been snatched up by developers and people are being priced out of London and can’t get anywhere near to their families or their workplace or-”

He cuts himself off, every vibrant inch of him freezing as he catches sight of Grantaire. His expression is hard to decipher, shocked into absolute stillness as he stares, pink mouth still slightly open around his last word. Grantaire had thought his magnetic appeal might have been falsely intensified in his mind, but seeing him again is like a hard punch to the gut. He’s dressed so precisely and _charmingly,_ a perfectly-cut dove grey suit and a white shirt with the collar buttoned neat and flat. His slacks are tailored just short enough to expose delicate ankles above his brogues, and good god, Grantaire had never before been so hopelessly attracted to someone that their very ankles made his breath catch. Enjolras looks almost dainty, his petite frame somehow adding to the force of his personality: Enjolras could be imposing without needing to appear physically stronger than anyone else. His acerbic tongue could do far more damage than the burliest fighter. He looks _perfect,_ and absolutely devastating, lethal, and Grantaire wants to run straight into the line of fire.

“This is Grantaire,” says Combeferre helpfully. “Cosette recommended him to us; he’s making the posters for the rally.”

“Of course,” says Enjolras, gathering himself, and his voice is cold and curt. “Welcome to the meeting.” He holds out a hand for Grantaire to shake, and it feels like a dismissal. Grantaire shakes it for the briefest second and then Enjolras is gone, pulling his hand away and moving quickly on to the front of the room. He does not spare Grantaire a second glance.


End file.
